


Deep Roots (Un)Touched by Frost

by DovahDoes



Series: Those Who Wander [1]
Category: Hellboy (Movies)
Genre: Added a bit of (shoddy) world-building to this 'verse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Antarctica, Attempt at Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, First Meetings, Getting Together, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, No Smut, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pre-Hellboy II: The Golden Army, Protective Nuada, Rescue, Violence, Whump, because why not, of sorts, or at least, surprisingly, technically some happens off-camera tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 09:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12791544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovahDoes/pseuds/DovahDoes
Summary: (Prequel toAll That Glitters is Not (A) Gold(en Army))Agent John Myers goes to Antarctica and meets some of the local supernatural populace.  (It goes well at first, but then quickly doesn't, any longer.)Nuada is making one of his last stops to check in with old acquaintances and ends up leaving with another person he finds oddly intriguing in tow.  (It goes fairly well at first, and then gets better.Muchbetter.)*TL;DR- Here's the meet-cute for John and Nuada in my 'Those Who Wander' 'verse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Title is based on a piece of Tolkein's writing, as is the title of the other work in this series.)
> 
> Man-- getting promoted is a boon for finances, but not so much for free time. Glad to be back, though!
> 
> Anyhoot, the bare bones of this fic have always existed, way before I ever started writing All That Glitters. Some of this is older writing, some I fleshed out recently. Sorry if the difference is super jarring, but I know if I spend any longer on this thing, it'll never get posted. :/
> 
> So yeah. Hope I'm not posting twenty-one thousand-and-something words of hot garbage. Hahaha. (There is one OC that I'm particularly fond of, though, so I hope y'all like her too.)
> 
> (Fun fact: I did not do a lick of research on Antarctica. Frankly, it's amazing that I know it's not the North Pole. hahaha. So yeah. Hope nothing's wildly wrong, but if it is, that'd be why.)
> 
> Alright, gonna try and keep it to relevant info, from here on forward, in the 'Notes' sections, so enjoy!

 

The waning crescent moon begins its slow journey across the dark sky, unobscured by clouds and half-lit by stars.

 

It is a familiar sight to Agent John Myers of the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense by now, but it’s a consistent little bright spot in the endless grind of long, grueling days each week.  More relevantly to his current situation, tonight, it’s a nice distraction from the unsuccessful small-talk one of his coworkers is trying to make with his two disinterested charges.  Seeing as the pair of enigmatic males seems unoffended by his split attention, he allows his mind to continue wandering.

 

Aside from recent developments, the several months he’s spent at the Antarctic headquarters— ‘outpost’, to be more accurate— have mostly been spent in a frustratingly stunted progression of unengaging activity.

 

A large chunk of the time has been spent painstakingly working his way back up to doing basic, regular fieldwork, as for whatever reason, he’d been all but demoted, and thus left to suffer greenhorn-level work and missions.  (He can almost bet that a certain cigar-hoarding former coworker must have thought it would be hilarious to send word ahead of a particularly incompetent fresh transfer on the way.)

 

Overall, the character of his experience inside the base bears an amount of resemblance to the building itself: that is, generally cold and notably isolated from almost all other life.  Dramatic, yes, but not entirely inaccurate, as even joining the odd team on an operation outside in the surprisingly paranormal species-rich environment hasn’t made his fellow agents seem any more inclined to engage in any off-duty socializing.

 

Or maybe it’s just his occasionally irrepressible bitter melancholy putting off some of his coworkers from reciprocating or initiating casual interaction.

 

The lone exception to the aforementioned tedium and uneventful ventures outside the base was a sudden attack on the premises.

 

~    *   ~   *    ~

 

Strange, gargantuan creatures had come barreling over the flat fields of frost and swarmed the minimally staffed building in the dead of night, catching those on watch completely by surprise.  Remarkably, they’d managed not to trip a single ‘state-of-the-art’ sensor of the (supposedly) robust security system on their way in through treble reinforced, twelve-foot tall protective fencing.

 

The bizarre creatures resembled amalgamations of an arctic wolf and some kind of stag, with dangerous looking hooves, snarling canine heads, and sharp antlers which they used to brutally gore any enemy they encountered.  In true BPRD-related fashion, they were also infinitely stronger than they had any right to be, and had managed to immediately tear through one of the (until then) impenetrable entrances to the base.

 

John, himself, had only just joined the fight, clad in thick pajama pants and a hastily donned winter coat, when there came a distant, hollow sort of whistling sound that made itself known, even above the chaotic cacophony of snarling roars, gunfire, and incomprehensible shouts.  Moments later, a cadre of tall, white-clad beings crested an elevated embankment adjacent to the base, and rounded the edge of the property before pouring in through the hole in the ravaged fencing.

 

Without ado, the avenging warriors in gleaming silver armor joined the fray and bolstered the flagging BPRD forces, quickly turning the tide of battle in favor of the humans.  After that, the encounter had been over in an almost embarrassingly short amount of time, entirely thanks to the aid of the mysterious protectors.

 

Collapsing to his knees in the snow, uncaring of the viscera staining the icy ground, John had glanced behind him at an unconscious agent lying prone against a portion of undamaged mortar, assured himself of their continued respiration, and then finally dropped his gun arm to his side. 

 

He’d looked out over the carnage comprised mostly of butchered monsters— many missing limbs where their enigmatic saviors had thought to hobble the deadly quick beasts— and passed a hand over his face, probably leaving an unseemly trail of red there, too.

 

When he reopened his dry, gritty-feeling eyes, it was to find a gloved hand being held before him, somehow completely devoid of any of the gore surrounding them.  He’d been beyond exhausted, both mentally and physically, and had stared at it for several beats before lifting his gaze to meet the featureless metal helmet protecting the being’s head.

 

Shaking himself, internally, John had clicked his gun’s safety back on and tucked it away in its place in his agency-issued coat, then reached forward to clasp his increasingly chilled hand in the absolutely sub-zero grip being proffered.

 

The towering humanoid gripped him below his left elbow and helped bear him back to the middle of the rapidly escalating triage operation in a clearing just past a point where the amount of bodies tapered off.  By happenstance, a little concrete courtyard had been left mostly undisturbed, fortunately for the busy medical staff.

 

Things got a bit blurry from there forward (likely a direct result of the steadily bleeding gash on his left bicep that he hadn’t even felt at the time), but he’d at least been lucky enough to live another day, unlike quite a few of his coworkers.

 

*

 

The next day, John had been released from medical just in time to catch the tail end of a brief, base-wide announcement instructing all staff-persons to check their work email.  The referenced memo simply contained more details of exactly what had transpired the night before.

 

According to their rescuers, the vicious man-eating creatures were uncommon in the area, but that pack in particular happened to have stalked a group of agents on a relatively remote research mission back to the headquarters.  From there, all they’d had to do was bide their time and wait until the base looked least heavily guarded.

 

Fortunately, the band of warriors had been passing through at the time of the ambush, and as natives to the region, were well-versed in how to deal with the dangerous beasts.

 

So went the BPRD’s first encounter with their ‘local’ troupe of Nomadic Ice Fae.

 

~    *   ~   *    ~

 

That had all occurred well over three weeks prior, and frankly, John is kind of tired of the whole thing.  Or rather, he’s kind of tired of seeing the same two statuesque, hyper-competent Antarctic drifters around the base.  Especially since he has been chosen as the ’chief liaison’, for some reason, and is relegated to shuttling them around the grounds like a glorified tour guide, hence his wistful stargazing midway to their destination, just earlier.

 

(To be fair, though, his last big assignment had essentially been that of a glorified babysitter, so maybe they _do_ have an accurate account of his experiences at the New Jersey headquarters, after all.)

 

Anyway, he is admittedly not the most prolific mind on base (that would better apply to about anyone on the research science team), but it hardly escapes his notice that almost every walkabout he has been instructed to take his taciturn guests on tends to end up at either a conference room with several high-ranking base officials awaiting the fae’s arrival, or simply right outside the director’s door.

 

The very same one which now swings open to reveal the assistant director shaking the two fae’s hands (both of whom are sporting their typical neutral expressions) and muttering a slightly-more-effusive-than-usual gruff series of ‘thank you’s to the two fur-draped beings as they step into the corridor. 

 

As has become the way of things, lately, John nods to the director and smiles kindly, if tiredly, at the mysterious duo before escorting them in the direction of the main exit.

 

It is just as jarring as it has been every time so far when one of them turns his dark, but mismatched eyes to him and says “Many thanks, Agent Myers.  Farewell” before both turn in tandem and leave the building.

 

If they ever said literally _anything_ during their interactions besides a ‘good day, Agent Myers’ at the very beginning, and that same goodbye at the end, it would all feel much less strange and remarkable, he’s sure.

 

Sighing, he brushes his hands down the front of his suit, smoothing out his lapels and then deftly removes the lanyard clipped to the card displaying his name and the title of ‘Guest Liaison’.  He then manages to nearly run headlong into Director Simms, himself, as he turns about to at last head to his long overdue meal break.

 

“ _Jesus!_ ” he half-gasps, stepping back, eyes widening as he takes in exactly _who_ he’s narrowly missed colliding with.  “Sorry, sir! What can I do for—”

 

“Next Wednesday, Myers.” the lanky middle-aged man says, easily cutting through John’s flustered sputtering.  “You’ll be coming along with us to finish up our talks with the Ice Fae.”

 

The director whirls about and makes a beeline in the direction of his office as soon as the last word leaves his mouth, leaving the junior agent time enough to offer a perplexed “Yes sir” to his rapidly retreating back.

 

You don’t see a guy for nearly three weeks, and the only thing he says to you is in regard to an assignment and the date on which it’s going to occur.  Classic BPRD.

 

“ ‘ _Talks_ ’,” John mutters to himself as he trudges off to the mess hall. “This _is_ bureaucratic hell. _Ugh.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	2. Chapter 2

 

As the exact details of whatever diplomatic moves the agency is making are technically above his pay-grade, the ‘Chief Liaison’ is, ironically, feeling more than a bit confused when he ends up accompanying the group of otherwise very official and well-informed agents.

 

It’s only himself, the director, the assistant director, the driver, and one security officer making the trip, which seems odd.  (Then again, about the only experience John has had with diplomatic talks had been the one time he’d withheld all blueberry syrup from Hellboy until the surly demon had made a concerted effort to completely clean his cluttered room.)

 

The gist of the very small amount of information he has been given informs him that they are brokering some sort of alliance or partnership with the group of traveling Ice Fae as a whole, and they will be hosting the BPRD’s Antarctic base officials on their own territory this time.

 

Maybe there will be an Ice Fae equivalent of a John Myers showing _him_ around, this time, he absurdly thinks.  He is just beginning to lackadaisically imagine what the fae version of himself would look like when the geared up, purpose-built automobile finally comes to a smooth stop.

 

As the closest to the door next to his row of seats, John is the first to climb out and hop down onto the hard-packed snow, turning to offer help to the next few people exiting the sizeable vehicle.  It follows that he is also the first to spot the approach of the group of fae in front of a large, but fairly humble construction that looks as though it is comprised entirely of ice, like a utilitarian cousin to one of those well-known ice hotels.  By the time the fae cross the short distance between the two factions, the BPRD vehicle completely empties of its occupants, save for the agent behind its wheel.

 

Politely waiting for word or indication of exactly what to do, he observes the director and assistant director shaking hands with one of the two familiar representatives of the apparently-not-so-nomadic group of ice fae.  His eyebrows raise slightly in surprise when his two superiors wheel about, then veer in his direction and move to shake _his_ hand, too.

 

The assistant director, who John has never even formally been introduced to, seems to completely ignore his presence after stepping back, as though no longer seeing him.  More startling than the weird, sudden handshaking, though, is what Director Simms says to John, all the while conspicuously unable to fully meet the young agent’s gaze. 

 

“Agent Myers.  Thank you,” the subdued director quietly intones, tucking a gloved hand into his coat pocket.  “And- and.  _Good luck._ ”

 

With that overtly alarming and pointedly cryptic statement, the rest of the BPRD troupe swiftly makes their way back to their tundra-ready ride and begin to climb back in, not one checking to see if the lone, low-ranked field agent is following.

 

And John _does_ intend to follow the group and explain exactly how massively unfunny this ill-conceived prank is, and then maybe to ask exactly _how_ this benefits their diplomatic relationship with their new allies, except that his feet seem to literally be stuck in place.  Resultingly, he’s left just short of comically windmilling his arms when he tries to simply step forward.

 

His heart picks up its pace and his skin prickles with dread when he glances down and realizes that he is _literally_ frozen to the ground.  At some point in the last few seconds, a thin layer of solid ice— which proves to be preternaturally strong— had crept up from under the soles of his shoes to surround and entrap the heavy-duty snow boots.  The BPRD agent gradually begins to panic while he watches as his last hope of safely traversing the long, uninhabited stretch of icy plain tears off with a great deal of haste.

 

Put plainly, his bosses have abandoned him on the side of the metaphorical Antarctic road.

 

At almost the exact moment that he loses sight of the off-white vehicle in the sudden, swirling snowstorm cropping up on all sides, he feels the heaviness that had left his feet feeling like leaden weights disappear altogether.  John determinedly cobbles together a bit of optimism with a sort of resigned bravery, and then turns around to again face the band of fae at his back.

 

And being that the ‘P’ in the FBI’s secret B.P.R.D. division stands for ‘paranormal’, he finds himself captivated, but not all too shocked, as their appearances change, somehow.  Clarifying, in a way, but also _warping_ , which is somehow terrifying in spite of their countenances becoming even _more_ beautiful, overall.  There’s just something about the unnatural placidity in a few of the myriad hyper-attractive faces that puts him even more at edge and niggles at some sort of instinctive fear center in his animal hindbrain.

 

Between one blink and the next he finds himself inside the unremarkable ice structure (which he has a vague sense has warped in appearance, too, much like his ‘hosts’) and is more than awed at both the lively environment and the countless pairs of curiously pigmented eyes peering curiously at him.

 

Striking black or silver sclera border irises varying anywhere from the darkest, glacier blue and up through greys and periwinkles so pale they look white.  There hadn’t been much detail in the paranormal species dossier about differences in appearance between different types of many species, and the section about Fae had been particularly lacking.

 

He feels himself come to what seems to be a natural stop, still oddly unaware of his actually being in motion until after the fact, and lets his own rather more mundane, cobalt blue eyes dart around the bustling, wide open room that’s adorned with ice-based architecture and many similarly themed pieces of furniture around its perimeter.

 

A soft, tenor voice garners his attention, and he meets a somewhat familiar pair of mismatched eyes that he soon recognizes as belonging to one of the two reticent fae he had regularly guided around the BPRD base, recently.  Now, though, the guy is dressed in what Jon can only think of as ‘finery’.  Actually, pretty much _everyone_ here is dressed the same way, which is when, belatedly, he starts to really put things together in his muddled head.

 

“Welcome,” the lightly-armored being says, expression as utterly unaffected as ever, “to the Winter Court.”

 

*

 

The cadre of what turns out to be winter fae and miscellaneous affiliated races slowly shrinks as he is ushered deeper into the sprawling stronghold. Not a word has been spoken to him since his initial inauspicious ‘welcome’ several minutes earlier, which suits John just fine, since he is quickly able to relegate the several conversations they are conducting over his head to white noise.

 

In lieu of listening to the strange language they are using (undoubtedly to keep him completely out of the loop), he allows his gaze to travel over the opulent, frost-themed features of the varied rooms and halls through which they traipse.  When at last they come to a stop, he absently studies an unbelievably detailed and complex-looking chandelier at the ceiling’s center that somehow produces light and has little flames here and there, in spite of it being composed almost purely of ice.  Intriguingly, there’s the occasional bit of what looks to be bleach-white bone thrown in, decoratively.

 

Before he can further examine the carved pieces of ossular material, a metal-encased hand lands heavily on his shoulder.  It is, of course, one of his stalwart escorts, and John is suddenly steered towards a very plush-looking couch, for all its ornate silver-gilded designs and keenly angled arms.  Figuring a seat might be nice after all the walking they have been doing— which, according to his watch, has somehow gone on for the better part of nearly two hours— he seats himself gingerly at the edge of one very chilled cushion.

 

From his perch, he watches as one of the armed fae sits down directly before him in an elegant, wingback armchair of sorts, which showcases some precisely carved petrified wood and is topped by a furry, white hide draped half-over the back.

 

“…nt Myers.  I see you are particularly susceptible to our typical mind and time magicks, then, mm?”  Both of his eyes, the irises curiously unmatched, seem to almost glow as he speaks, effortlessly managing to capture their guest’s gaze with his own. “Now, _pay attention_.”

 

John, fully zoning back in, focuses on the unnaturally symmetrical face in front of him, even as he notes that the second guard has chosen to remain standing near the doors, as if the lone BPRD agent might try making a break for it, at any moment.  Even without years of FBI training and his recent field experience, he would _still_ know it’s a bad idea.

 

(Besides the daunting prospect of making it past— or through— the multitude of castle inhabitants, there is also the fact that they are surrounded by miles and miles of inhospitable Antarctic tundra.  Furthermore, said tundra is firmly set within wards that ensure no Mundanes can wander close or even see past an impenetrable glamour at the castle’s perimeter, unless invited to do so.)

 

Still feeling like he is just beginning to wake from a strange half-sleep, he tries to focus what is being said to him, furrowing his brows and blinking eyelids that had felt heavily weighted minutes earlier.

 

“We have heard tell of the chaos your allies can cause with their inherent gifts, their impressive weapons, and even their unprecedented academic intelligence.”

 

So not only is he immediately chopped liver, what with his lack of any ‘gifts’ and his non genius-level intelligence, but this guy thinks he’ll make good bait to lure out his callous ex-coworkers.  It’s going to be unfortunate when these people learn that that selfsame bunch had sent him down to this frozen nightmare of a continent in the first place to get him out of their apparently at-capacity Friends Club, almost half a year ago.

 

“They, however, are not with whom our interests lie,” the impassive member of the winter court says.

 

Oh.  Well, surely—

 

“We have been looking for _you_ , Agent John Myers.  Luckily, it would seem the gods favour our cause, as you made your own way right to our doorstep.  After that, we needed offer your former employer only the meagerest of political alliances— along with a small monetary contribution, of course.”

 

‘Aggressively wary’ is a good way to describe how someone should probably feel in a situation such as this, but in order to convince himself _not_ to make that ill-advised break for the nearest exit, where Guard Two still stands at the ready, John forcibly latches onto a last glimmer of hopefulness **.** Surely, if he is so valuable, for whatever reason, this should all turn out okay, right?

 

He clears his parched throat before attempting speech, still not entirely sure that his input is welcome, but unwilling to sit silently and let the fae continue into what is slowly but surely starting to turn into a particularly pretentious-sounding variety of the token villain monologue.

 

“Ah.  Of course.  And what, uh, _exactly_ do you need for me to do, again? Mr…-?”

 

His clear prompt for any sort of name is summarily ignored, much to his concealed chagrin.

 

“What we need is your _consent_.”

 

That phrasing is far from ideal.  John’s chest tightens and a cold sweat breaks out at his lower back and along his temples.

 

“Y-you… you _what_?”

 

The other male raises one imperious brow (notably, it’s the closest he’s come to properly emoting, so far) and glances up and down at the human clutching the edge of the settee, white-knuckled and grim-looking.

 

“Hmph— not for anything of _that_ nature, Agent Myers.  Although, as your kind go, you are a passable specimen, I suppose.  In any case, I mean that we truly only need a contract of your word giving us permission to use you or a small part of your essence in several magical rites and rituals to aid in the efficiency of our court’s day-to-day operation.  That is all.”

 

The face across from him remains as placid as it has since the very first time he had ever encountered the fae, back when the Winter Court had been simply visiting the BPRD facilities, several weeks ago.  As usual, it gives absolutely nothing away, which leaves John with no indication as to the nature of the intentions of anyone involved in this whole strange mess.

 

Exactly how _much_ of his ‘essence’ would be used in these rituals, and for _what_?  How is he, a run-of-the-mill human, expected to participate in magical rituals of any kind?

 

Instead of continuing to quietly speculate about these things, he poses them as questions to the male across from him, who elaborates, if rather cryptically.

 

“We have need of you because of your heart, Agent Myers.  You have a Pure Heart, something we have neither seen nor had access to in ages.  There is a per— there are _people_ here that you can help by simply agreeing to participate in a few spells, rituals, and the like.

 

“Simply say ‘ _yes_ ’, and you will be on your way in no more than a month or two, free to go about your business; your time here will be forgotten, and everything exactly the same when you again return to work.”

 

Instead of visibly wincing, John closes his eyes for several moments, as if shoring up his thoughts.  There’d been several red flags, just now, but the rise of sudden near-emotionality in his theretofore even-keeled tour guide had been the most telling.  Ulterior motives are par for the course when requests are made in imbalanced situations, but the real issue is deciding if one is comfortable abetting said motives and any ramifications of their being carried out.

 

As it is, his gut tells him that he is being misled, and that he is ultimately going to be part of somebody’s self-interested machinations, no matter what decision he comes to.  After all, why offer to wipe a person’s memory of something if the whole operation is so very positive and beneficial?  Precluding the possibility that they’re hiding an Eldritch horror somewhere around here, and that the very sight or memory of it would destroy his mind, the only reasons for such an action are suspect at best.

 

With all this in mind, blithe complicity sounds _really_ good about now, but the most appealing option isn’t always the one you should impulsively pick, his pesky moral sense reminds him.  Once upon a time, Hellboy had called him ‘Boyscout’, playfully, but damned if his conscience does get the better of him, more often than not.

 

Coming to the only decision that might leave him with some peace of mind, he steels himself and then opens his eyes to meet the pair directly across from him with a steadiness he does not at all feel internally.

 

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to decline your… offer.”

 

Just like that, the temperature drops by another few dozen degrees around them, and his gaze is met with blunt impassivity.

 

The guard stands from his seat and pointedly averts those peculiar eyes, even as he beckons John forward with a polite gesture.

 

“Very well, then.  Come along, Agent Myers.”

 

*

 

In the beginning, they have no qualms about reminding him of precisely how he has wound up in his predicament.  That his own so-called coworkers had all but sold him off without much question, hardly caring about his unknown fate.

 

That he should hold no loyalty to them.  (Reflexively, he tells them that he doesn’t, and that the only loyalty he has any longer is to himself and his own convictions.  It isn’t true.  Not yet, anyway.)

 

His ‘hosts’ spend those first couple of weeks trying to sway him into agreeing to their strange terms: to simply _consent_ to giving up some part of himself for still unspecified reasons.  He’s pretty sure it’s his heart or soul or something equally significant, if he’s reading between the lines, properly.

 

They _especially_ like to needle at him about the BPRD’s— really, Hellboy and his former team’s— betrayal.  If it wasn’t already a sore spot (and it is), this particular angle might be their best shot at breaking him down enough to relent and finally give in.

 

Instead, he sticks to his guns, resolute in his refusal to participate willingly in whatever mysterious project it is they are running.

 

So they simply make him participate _un_ willingly, of course.

 

*

 

In essence, he is used as living, breathing fodder for whatever materials they might desire on any given day.  They keep him drugged (or perhaps under some sort of spell or charm), often, and occasionally deign to feed him a rather bland, tepid drink that somehow manages to satiate any hunger or thirst he might experience.  It’s also pretty telling that the cup containing the lukewarm liquid feels almost scalding in comparison to the arctic air around him.

 

Time means nothing in the frigid room where he is kept, which is unsurprising considering the dossier about Fae territories that the BPRD had compiled.  They’d theorized that time might flow at a different rate and that the fae therein likely also have the capability to manipulate it or others’ perception of it.  Hence, much of the mythos surrounding faerie-human interactions.

 

(Unknown to the lot of them— including one unfortunate former agent stuck in one such territory— the farther Fae move away from their chosen lands, the weaker their grasp over time magicks is, typically).

 

In any case, John only knows of what is happening inside of his super-limited living space, hazy as his perception sometimes is.  He knows his hair grows long— nearly to his jaw— and then it is haphazardly cut close to his skull, only for it to grow long, again, and start the cycle anew.  His nails, too, have reached rather unseemly lengths at many points, much to his mortification, before being carefully trimmed and carted away, just like his shorn locks.

 

Near the beginning, when he had first allowed himself to not only give in to despair, but to allow it to manifest by way of tears, those had been collected, too, even as he tried to turn his heavy head away from the cold hands gripping his skull to keep it steady.  At that point, another pair of hands would position small phials underneath or next to his eyes, determinedly adjusting their placement so as not to miss a single drop of moisture.  All the while, he would futilely try and will away the hot feeling behind the stubbornly watering orbs by simply shuttering his eyelids.

 

Luckily, he’s since become far too resigned and numb to his reality to really be _sad_ about any of this, anymore.

 

Generally, what they tend to resort to taking most often, now, is his blood.  It must be super potent for whatever it is that they are using it for, John muses, as his thoughts drift back into the present. (He snorts, internally: that or they’ve heard he used to faint after donating blood when he was younger, and find his atypical level of wooziness to be a source of amusement.)

 

All the better for him if he passes out, which he usually does, as they rarely seem to care that humans need to have a certain amount of blood to function properly.  It’s always a relief when he feels himself float off somewhere where the chill seeping into his bones falls away into a tolerable sort of mild discomfort.

 

*

 

The passage of minutes, days, and a dragging bundle of fortnights becomes very murky, again.  He thinks that in between the ‘fogs’ he drifts into— almost always thanks to his captors’ interference— it must be far more than a year since he’d first been brought here.  (Actually, it might be approaching two years, now, if he really wants to further ruin his day by overthinking.)

 

The point is, in his waking hours, when he sometimes escapes the twilight state of semi-consciousness they often trap him in, he becomes aware that he feels _different_ , somehow.

 

Perhaps it’s linked to one _particularly_ surreal memory of being jolted back to full consciousness, after drifting down further and further into a pleasant sleep so deep that he’d surmised he might never wake up again.

 

At that point, the usual suspects had started feeding myriad things back _into_ him, instead of the reverse, as it would usually go.  If this murky half-recollection is to be believed, it had all culminated with a particularly craggedy, old fae leaning over him and intensely chanting some pretty involved-sounding stuff while everything around John’s body started to glimmer as if glazed with a fresh layer of hoary frost.

 

The end result was a sharply stinging area on his right wrist.  Eventually, he had managed to piece together where he recognized the darkening mark on his skin.  He’d seen it sewn into pieces of clothing donned by the palace’s inhabitants: it was the sigil for the winter court and its royal family.

 

Since that maybe-incident, although he has remained often insensate, perpetually miserable, and generally laid up in his bed, he is able to recognize that something about his senses has changed.  His sight— the most immediately notable— has improved immensely, and he, overall, feels a bit stronger, somehow.  Or rather, perhaps just a bit more aware and present (in those moments where they allow him to be, anyway).

 

Not that any of this really matters, as clearly, his fate is utterly sealed: he was a bargaining chip for the agency he’d dedicated his adult life to working for, and there is no reason for his circumstances to change any time soon.

 

He hasn’t a soul left of his family, and not a friend in the world, it turns out.

 

If only Hellboy could see him now, right?  Ha.

 

The brand on his wrist burns uncomfortably, just before he feels the wards disengage **,** and John closes his eyes in preparation for the welcome wave of ‘zone out’ magic that is about to be cast over him, which will precede their taking whatever it is they need, today.

 

Absently, he continues to muse, way deep down inside, about his former colleagues and finally asks himself exactly _why_ they not only allowed him to be shipped off to the edge of the world, by himself, but had in fact _requested_ that it happen, in Hellboy’s case.

 

A few dozen months ago, it’s possible he would have been willing to forgive or at least _forget_ , but here in the cold, isolated world that is his small room (more a glorified cell, truly), there really isn’t much else to think about.  And anyway, it seems as though there is something missing from him, inside, where his compassion used to sit.

 

He spends perhaps a few moments searching his heart for that easy kindness that has always been so readily available to dole out, but instead finds only an icy wall of apathy there, now.

 

Huh.  Maybe _that’s_ why he feels so different, then.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll probably notice that I bastardize a whole hell of a lot of myths and legends and such-- it's a good time. I'm trying to keep things somewhat consistent as they're established, though. I've never really tried anything fantasy-related, so wish me luck!
> 
> Also, yeah. This is pretty much as close as I've been able to get to writing angst. It's def. a work in progress....  
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	3. Chapter 3

 

In the end, of _course_ it is the Bethmooran elves— about the last type of elf that one would ever find this far south and out of their literal element— that completely change his circumstances.  Or rather, it is just one elf in particular.

 

The day of his unforeseen rescue, John is allowed outside of his ‘quarters’ for the first time in recent memory, having been forced to imbibe some sort of rejuvenating potion beforehand.  The elixir leaves him glaze-eyed and walking about on legs he hardly knows are there, as strange and anaemic as he feels.

 

*

 

The pointed displays of finery are beginning to grate on Prince Nuada as he does his level best to contain a sneer when yet another crystal and fur-draped fae bumps into him as he makes his way around the room in search of one uncharacteristically elusive person.  On his second circuit of the unreasonably large ballroom (although, they are typically obscenely oversized in the home of any seasonal court, truth be told), he finds himself repeatedly drifting towards one corner of the room in particular.

 

At the whispery glide of _another_ gauzy, translucent piece of ‘clothing’ against his upper arm, he huffs aloud and finally follows the path his feet seemingly want him to take, over towards a small cluster of settees and lushly padded lounges.  As he does his level best to avoid any more collisions, accidental or otherwise, he absently takes in the typical array of cool-toned hair colours, ranging from pale white-grey and into various hues of blue, black, and even purple.

 

Well-versed as he is in every bit of deeply ingrained court etiquette, he still almost stumbles when he sees a rare head of brown locks turn in his direction before his cool gaze meets the other’s head-on.  An odd, warm sort of pang runs through him as he fully glimpses the curious being: its hair is carefully coiffed, but kept shorter than the majority of attendants, brushing delicately just past very lightly tapered ears.

 

Intriguingly, its eyes are a strikingly bright hue of blue, and are piercing even though its pupils are so heavily dilated that Nuada concludes that it is either under someone’s magical thrall or has had access to a healer’s jar of analgesic mushrooms.  Those irises, alike to glowing apatite, slide away to gaze at something else entirely, and the prince shakes off the strange atmosphere before making a beeline toward a mostly untraversed hallway where he gathers himself, feeling more out of sorts than he has in, perhaps, literal ages.

 

At the sound of a clear, melodic ringing, several moments later, he brushes off the naturally occurring bits of frost that have begun to surreptitiously gather a few places on his formalwear.  (It would seem the Solstice Week celebration, here, would never change: if you visit the Winter Court, you can expect their elements to greet you.)

 

The pleasant, but loud, clarion bell cuts off not too long after he re-enters the ballroom proper and sees that the staff have managed to set out several incredibly long tables with near-endless stretches of refreshments.  Uninterested in partaking of any of the hundreds of h’ors d’eouvres, he scans the merrily comingling guests with less subtlety, now, increasingly tired of the whole vapid affair still whirling on about him.

 

A palm’s firm weight atop his shoulder has him pivoting around with a hand over the hidden pocket sewn into the side of his formal robes, where a small dagger always rests.

 

“Nuada,” the fae before him says serenely.  “Welcome.  It has been quite a while since last we met, hm?”

 

Prince Chulainn remains largely unchanged in appearance, as expected, although there seems to be a hint of something different about his pale, pearlescent eyes—perhaps he has fallen victim to some passing fashion for maquillage: gods know how eccentric fae can become when it comes to ‘style’ and ‘trends’.  (Yet another reason to avoid particularly large celebrations hosted in their seasonal courts, in his opinion.)

 

Ceasing his fleeting analysis of his childhood acquaintance, Nuada dutifully replies to the greeting promptly (if a little distractedly), as he again sees something at the periphery of his vision that almost fully draws his focus away from the actual reason he is even attending this gods-forsaken week-long party.  Forcefully willing himself back into the correct headspace, he nods amicably as the other male gestures toward the same set of couches and chairs he had walked by, earlier, and sets off to follow the other young noble’s lead.

 

Nuada is engaged in genial, uninteresting small talk as he seats himself lightly in a large, wing-backed armchair that is set close to another of its exact kind, in which the tall fae seats himself.

 

Of infinitely more interest to the Bethmooran elf, though, is the lithe young man who stands, wavering, tethered to an arm of the fae prince’s chair with a length of woven white material.  The typically taciturn male opposite him allows the slightest suggestion of a smile to curl a lip before leaning back in his seat and coyly weaving a tale he obviously intends to recount at every opportunity, this evening.

 

“Ah, you have noticed my ‘special guest’ to the ball, I see.”  Elegant, unblemished fingers tap the short length of braided, gossamer-looking fabric, which shimmers with every swaying motion.  Notably, it is coordinated with a strip of the exact same material along the lacing at the front of the host’s intricately embroidered tunic.

 

“We simply did what we are known to do best and _convinced_ a foolish Man or two to give us what _we_ wanted in exchange for something they wanted, _which_ we only had to make them want _slightly_ more.  Fairly simple, really.”

 

Nuada’s brow raises, as he is mildly curious, still, about the being who has had the rather extreme misfortune to be spirited away by the fickle fae of the Winter Court for an actual _reason_.  They are about as careful with the mundanes they snatch up as is a spoiled child with a new toy.

 

“This is one we had been watching for some time— since he became involved in the mess with that mad Rasputin warlock.  Lady Luck was with us when his employers placed him so close to our territory, and it took only a few glamoured guardsmen, a _devastating_ ‘wild animal’ attack with us riding to their rescue, and the smallest hint of a charm on a leader or two to Take him for our own.”

 

Seemingly mostly unaware of his surroundings, the being in question shows no reaction to the tale of his capture whatsoever, but when he shivers, Nuada finds himself intrigued anew.  He has never in all of his years seen anyone within the Winter Court shiver (as mostly winter-aligned beings, why should they, after all), and he briefly catches sight of a metallic blue design inscribed along the inside of a pale wrist.  A moment later, the brand of ownership is concealed as the young man hugs himself and half leans on the occupied chair at his side, as if in hopes of preserving and searching out warmth.

 

The unlucky subject of discussion seems rather used to being an unobtrusive presence, likely the best course of action, as self-preservation goes, he imagines.  Which is wholly unnecessary, he reminds himself, as ‘imagining’ is _not_ the reason he has come all this way.

 

Heaving a huge breath, silently, the Bethmooran prince forces himself to realign his full attention onto his potential ally **.** He cannot afford to wonder whether the fae here have taken one of their own descendants or relatives as prisoner, if they will be gifting a human with a place in the royal court, or if the answer is perhaps somewhere between the two.  Not when he has so much banking on the crux of this conversation with the unperturbed-looking fae across from him. 

 

He has trained in the delicate dances of diplomacy and debate just as much as he has in the art of combat, and is determined not to walk away from his time here empty-handed.

 

“Prince Chulainn, as we have been becoming reacquainted for several minutes now, and you seem rather at ease speaking openly, allow me to reveal the main impetus for my having traveled such a distance to your most illustrious kingdom.  It has everything to do with dealing with the ever-present, and ever-destructive force that is Mankind.

 

The very same creatures who are no longer willing to believe or accept that there are other intelligent beings beyond the vale of the mundane world, but seem obsessed, all the same, with trying to recreate magic by way of their overpowered ‘technology’ and innumerable, monstrous machines.

 

All of this while poisoning not only themselves, but also the natural resources they need to survive, and the even the Earth, herself.  I am sure you are all well aware of exactly what is happening to the ice at both poles, likely better than any other seasonal court, yes?

 

So, allow me to lay out my proposal, old friend, as a solution…”

 

*

 

Several hours later finds Nuada in quite the ill temper.  The exact kind of ill temper that, in his youth, had been known to drive him to make rash or reckless decisions.

 

Not only had his proposal of an alliance with the Winter Court— or at least the royal family— been soundly rejected (indulgently chuckled at, too), but within an hour or two of his _at last_ dropping off to sleep, he is being shaken awake.  By the end of the humiliating disaster of an evening, all he had desired was a decent amount of rest before setting out at dawn’s first light, so this situation is less than ideal.

 

“Wink,” he grits out into his pillow, utterly unamused. “This is absolutely _not_ the time to tell me which new cousin of yours you’ve discovered _this_ far away from… home.”

 

The barely bed-rumpled warrior prince sits up and casts his gaze about his given quarters in the span of a few seconds, only to find not a thing out of place and not a soul— disembodied or otherwise— responsible for bringing him so abruptly back to consciousness.  And although irate, he is grudgingly intrigued by the strange ‘pangs’, for lack of a better term, that have been steadily increasing in strength and frequency since his arrival at the palace of the Winter Court, several days ago especially since they are stronger than ever at this very moment.

 

Rubbing his dry eyes, the now irrevocably awake elf swings his legs over the bed’s edge and rubs one ashwood white hand over his face before standing to quickly don a set of his traveling clothing, being sure to pull on the cloak he’d had charmed to keep out the worst of the almost unnatural chill of this court’s home territory.

 

Looking over his haphazardly placed formal robes from last night, he makes a split-second decision based purely on some strange niggling bit of intuition, and speedily grabs each piled up piece of tailored material before repacking his simple travel bag with them.  That done, the lightweight and thoroughly weathered kit is slung over his back and then lightly sprinkled with a temporary glamouring potion so as to be invisible at first glance.

 

As he strides soundlessly from his room, he finds himself acutely missing the familiar weight and shape of his lance at his back.  (All guests are barred from entering the premises with any weaponry whatsoever, as is customary: a practice that has always chafed at Nuada.  Custom is not law, though, and so he is never without a spare blade somewhere on his person, else he would spend his visits here with no hope of proper rest.)

 

Still not entirely sure of exactly _what_ he is searching for, but increasingly aware that as he wanders the more dimly lit and utterly uninhabited corridors, he _is_ searching for something, he steadily advances deeper into the icy bowels of the stronghold, where things begin to look quite different.

 

When decorated, ornate doorways disappear entirely in favour of small, unremarkable doorways lined in various sets of characters and runes, he concludes that he has reached what must function as the dungeons.  Which very likely means there are guard patrols nearby, if one is not already in the process of looping around behind him.

 

Quickly glancing about, he uses ages of battle and training-honed senses to analyze the entirety of his surroundings before zeroing in on the safest path forward and out of potential harm’s way.  Unlike the prisons which humans favour, where thick metal bars block the entrance to each cell, many magical beings (and especially fae) tend more toward using magic to ensure the security of their detainees, often leaving doorways clear of any physical obstruction.

 

Thus, Nuada is able to simply step right into the room whose varied wards and charms he deems least likely to cause him any harm.   With only a mild stinging sensation that prickles its way across his body as it crosses the invisible line, he enters the absolutely freezing small space and stills after smoothly moving to one side, so as to be concealed from any quick glances from passing guards.

 

There is a familiar figure sleeping on a small cot that sits flush against the wall, unmoving save for the nearly imperceptible movement of its chest.  This is surely the picture of cold, lonely misery incarnate; the curled up male trembles with obvious chill before drawing in both arms even more tightly to his breast, the thin (but well-made) fabric clearly not enough to keep him warm.

 

The Bethmooran dignitary finds himself approaching with intention to touch that curious mark that is bared on the slightly upturned wrist when he is again stopped dead in his tracks, but this time by a hazy, preternaturally bright blue gaze directed at— or perhaps through— him.  Those captivating irises are still mostly eclipsed by black pupils, but somehow it seems that this is closest Nuada has seen this strange creature come to full awareness, today.

 

At the near pleading look directed his way, something wild and reckless sweeps through the prince, again— something keen and righteous, as he comes to a quick decision.

 

If the winter court does not care to even humour a simple request from a former ally, then what is to stop him from departing their fete ahead of time with another guest?  He takes no joy in proving true any aspersion his father casts upon his character, but he truly _does_ have rather a vengeful streak that can verge upon petty: he has lost what he came to get, and so it seems fair that his counterpart should lose something he already has.

 

Knocking thrice against the stone and ice of the wall, he leans closely and speaks clearly, if quietly, knowing his companion will be able to hear him, whatever his precise location.

 

“Mr. Wink— ready Édain and Vali, and bring my weapons: we are leaving early.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Édain is, essentially.... a dire stag, kind of?  She is based on one of the more intriguing megafauna to have roamed about: the [Irish Elk](https://www.google.com/search?biw=1368&bih=845&tbm=isch&sa=1&ei=_BUVWrb_GqSmjwSUsLyADg&q=megafauna+ireland+elk&oq=megafauna+ireland+elk&gs_l=psy-ab.3...4173.4874.0.5097.4.4.0.0.0.0.89.289.4.4.0....0...1c.1.64.psy-ab..0.0.0....0.ealcE45rSkw).  (I imagine her to have a very dark red coat, and a white/cream-coloured belly.  Yes, she has antlers.  Yes, that's [apparently] a thing among some species of that animal family.  Easier than just saying 'because magic', really...)

 

Vali is, essentially a dire rhinocerous.  _Specifically_ , he's a based on the [Woolly Rhino](https://www.google.com/search?biw=1368&bih=845&tbm=isch&sa=1&ei=vhcVWvyTNcuZjwSf766oDw&q=megafauna+ireland+wooly+rhino&oq=megafauna+ireland+wooly+rhino&gs_l=psy-ab.3...2707.3544.0.3750.6.6.0.0.0.0.106.504.5j1.6.0....0...1c.1.64.psy-ab..0.0.0....0.U-KcrlSZ_7w), which also ran around the UK, at one point, much like the Irish Elk. o:  He's huge, of course, and dark grey.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prince Nuada "Pettiness Incarnate" Silverlance, everyone! I just... like that he had to rationalize rescuing John as pretty much _only_ being about his getting even. #surejan
> 
> And yes, that's their fledgling little soulmate bond working its magic, already.
> 
> Also, the whole seasonal court thing isn't exactly by-the-book, here. jsyk. That _is_ on purpose.  
>  *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	4. Chapter 4

 

They dash through the ice sculpture-littered grounds behind the sprawling palace and into the Antarctic wilderness beyond.  A blinding burst of light marks their exit as they leave the heavily warded area.  In hindsight, perhaps it had been a bit excessive to have Wink literally punch a hole through the wall of his newfound companion’s cell in order to facilitate their escape, but so be it.  At least it had let the restless cave troll do something more ‘his speed’.

 

He does not dare entertain the arrogant hope that they have been neither noticed nor pursued, and this proves to be a prudent mindset.  Less than two minutes after they themselves have left the Antarctic stronghold, a band of mounted fae hurtle onto the tundra with extreme force, heralded by the haunting and vicious howling of the wind and sudden fresh whirlwinds of thick snowfall swirling about.

 

The fleeing party’s progress is hampered by the intense and disorienting weather for only a minute or so, but in that time, they lose much of their lead and find themselves in easy reach of their pursuers. 

 

Most worrisome, immediately, is the single, overlarge enforcer alongside the other three helmeted officers.  Fortuitously, its proportionately-sized, towering mount seems less suited for speed than its far smaller compatriots, and for the moment, it lags behind the rest of the group.

 

The other Winter Court security officers ride atop several of a particularly disconcerting, vicious-looking creature.  The heads of snarling, teeth-gnashing white wolves are connected to what look like the bodies of black-legged, snowy stags.  Alarmingly, their amber eyes are focused unerringly on the mostly insensate figure sitting slumped over in front of Nuada.

 

The elf’s muttered invective is lost to the wind tearing by them and the thunderous sound of numerous sets of hooves charging over frozen tundra.

 

It takes some maneuvering, but he wraps the reins around one fist and uses that forearm to brace the other male up across his middle in order to help maintain balance.  The other man catches on to the idea and manages to summon enough energy to remain mostly upright on his own power, levering himself with a hand on the pommel at the large saddle’s front and the other gripping a raised edge nearby it.

 

With his free arm, Nuada draws his lance, and clamping his legs tighter about the saddle, he uses the leverage to twist around quite a bit in his seat and swing the weapon in a diagonal arc just behind his periphery.  A suspended second later, one of the armored forms tumbles from his growling mount and onto the icy, snow-covered ground, immediately being trampled by one of his compatriots just to his side that reacts a moment too late to the sudden obstacle.

 

And because stealing from the Winter Court invites all sorts of awful consequences and never-ending, terribly timed new issues, it is then that he notices the gigantic form of the arctic ogre that is gaining on his position steadily.  All this despite the size of its mount, a gargantuan dire polar bear sporting some obscenely large and sharp teeth.  The beast’s massive paws churn up a consistent spray of slushy snow that forces the other riders, which are now behind it, to move out of its wake.

 

“Wink!” Nuada bellows, feeling the onset of another suspiciously ill-timed snowstorm begin to kick sharp, wintry winds across his body.  Oddly, the form before him hardly reacts to the intensified winter weather around them, which cannot be a positive sign of health, if he truly is as human as he seems.

 

An errant strand of birch-pale hair whips into Nuada’s field of vision for a moment, and as he tosses his head to move it out of his way, it is just in time to witness Mr. Wink’s mechanical forearm make devastating impact with the chest plate of the monstrous enforcer.

 

Instead of the sharp clang of metal on metal, there is a bass-y crack, reminiscent of when thick ice is compromised.  Confident that his sworn guard will triumph over his chosen opponent, Nuada turns his attention to the two other troops that are, themselves, nearly even with his position.

 

He shortens the stock of his lance while swerving his antlered steed towards the soldier to the right, and then thrusts his silvery polearm lightning-quick right at the thinner, more vulnerable side armor of their pursuer.  Trying to hold onto the increasingly more deadweight male seated in front of him compromises his speed, though, and his attack is parried by an expertly-wielded sword that has a thin coating of what looks like ice over the furthermost half of the blade.

 

He is forced to jerk the leathery reins in his gloved hand sharply to the left in order avoid a horizontal, cleaving blow no doubt meant to bisect him straight through his middle.  Much to his frustration, it is getting more difficult with every moment to see through the heavy snow that is whipping about them.  Immediately following his opponent’s slash, Nuada moves right back inside the other being’s guard, shifting to close quarters combat, at which he excels.

 

Nearby, there is a loud series of clangs and a curious, hollow sort of sound, like metal crumpling, which precedes a pained roar and an earthshaking thud.  Although in the midst of a lightning-quick exchange of blows with his opponent, his enhanced peripheral vision shows him that Wink has at last bested his own target **.** The massive, mottled off-white ogre lays unmoving on the icy tundra behind them, its ursine mount plodding forward slowly, as if perplexed about its suddenly absent rider.

 

Partially distracted as he is, his own opponent takes advantage of his slightly averted gaze and puts a burst of fresh vigor behind each swing of their frost-gilded weapon, ultimately forcing the Bethmooran elf to lean away to block better, as he is still wielding his own lance with only one hand.

 

In that moment, he realizes his mistake, as the other figure pulls up even closer and moves forward just enough to grasp one of Nuada’s charge’s thickly clothed forearms, beginning to roughly tug the almost fully lax figure over to his own nightmarish mount.  Ever possessive of those things he takes an interest in, the prince growls and steers his sturdy elk to the right, ramming directly into the fae soldier’s aberrant wolf-stag with enough force to very nearly unseat the unbalanced rider who swears as he is forced to veer away empty-handed.

 

Unfortunately, the very person he has just rescued begins to list sideways on the saddle, his white-knuckled grip steadily losing strength.  Thinking quickly, Nuada shuffles forward and reels the other male in even closer, plastering them front to back, seamlessly.  (On any other day, he would deem this position overintimate, but at the moment his mind is fully staid on how to most efficiently escape their dogged pursuers.)

 

The familiar chaos of battle has his blood up and his eyes burning with righteous fury as he effortlessly extends the reach of his favoured weapon, again.  Moving the former captive’s body in sync with his, he is able to achieve a faster, more natural trajectory in the next jab of his lance.  The keen tip of his blade lodges itself in the juncture between the helm’s underside and the top of the fae’s glossy chest plate, cutting through the layered mail, there, like a trowel sinking into turned soil.

 

Without pause, he yanks the pole of his weapon back— along with the being in whose throat it is implanted— by collapsing the staff.  The injured combatant grasps uselessly at its neck, dark indigo life essence gushing over their front as they crash to the ground at speed.

 

Nuada returns his lance at his back, in its usual place, and nudges Édain into accelerating one last time.  They are finally nearing the outer reaches of the winter court’s territory, where his ragtag band will almost definitely lose the interest of their hunters.

 

A discomfiting prickling sensation on the back of his neck that he recognizes as his own combat-honed form of Intuition has him turning to his left to see that the last, mysterious rider has not only caught up, but has managed to silently make their way to their side.  Furthermore, he could swear that all three of the smaller armoured fae guards had been on the same type of mount, earlier, but the initial inclement weather must have obscured his vision, for something entirely different is keeping pace with his own impressive Bethmooran Elk, now.

 

This rider’s predictably oversized steed is an unblemished, pure white creature that is a striking cross between a horse and a stag, featuring the legs, ears, and tail of the former combined with the antlers, skull, long neck, and body of the latter.  Its eyes are a lucent, cloud-white tinted with perhaps a bit of pale, periwinkle: an eye colour seemingly shared by its unperturbed rider, whose gaze remains resolutely turned forward, no helmet to be seen any longer. 

 

Said rider, who has shown no signs of hostility the last several seconds turns their head and meets Nuada’s regard straight on, revealing two jarringly different eye colours now that their face is not visible only in profile; both sclerae are an unremarkable white (atypical for fae), but where one iris is so pale it, too, is nearly white, the other is an electrifying, saturated hue of glacier blue. 

 

The intense, fixed stare shifts, momentarily, to the man safely ensconced in the embrace of the Bethmooran exile, and then back to said Bethmooran native’s eyes.  Eyes which are narrowed both as protection from the biting wind through which they are travelling as well as in annoyance at the arrival of yet _another_ distracting challenger.  All the while, the curiously non-aggressive fae guardsman is making a face that seems to imply he is trying to solve a particularly perplexing riddle.

 

Nuada, however, is doing his level best to focus on reaching the ever-nearing boundary of this hostile territory they are careening through, and so nearly misses the first short, terse utterance of his name due to the roaring winds.  He feels the mismatched gaze burning into his visage, again, but remains resolutely facing forward, urging the hard-working beast beneath them to push on.

 

His ears perk up, and without looking, he can hear that Wink has _finally_ begun to match their progress, galloping along at a breakneck speed not all too far behind them.  And then he winces as something else much less welcome becomes audible.

 

“ **Cease this petty, needless exercise in petulant thievery, _now_ , and surrender him to his fairly acquired servitude**.”

 

When he hears the voice this time, it is louder and more forceful— almost in stereo, as it reverberates through his mind _and_ his eardrums.  Simultaneously, the lax body in his arms shudders and attempts to both turn away and burrow further into Nuada’s body all at once.

 

With an irate snarl, he makes a very quick calculation of the drawbacks of entering into yet _another_ horseback brawl, but rethinks this idea when he finally takes a deliberate look at the rider to their left: the previously unremarkable fae has left behind the heavy glamour he must have been under, and now those two mismatched eyes glow with barely restrained rage amidst a set of recognizable features.

 

The presence of a member of the royal family handily explains the rash of wild, icy weather that has hampered their progress, as Stormcalling is as characteristic for them as are the distinctive facial markings for those born to his father’s line.  Perhaps the only thing remarkable about the other prince’s elemental control is how he seems utterly unaffected by the blizzard raging about him.  Untethered, short locks of powder blue frost-gilded hair glint in the cloud-dimmed daylight, not at all disturbed by wind or precipitation.

 

The revelation that Prince Chulainn, himself, has deigned to interfere with their escape is intriguing, but it cannot overshadow the welcomed sense of relief when the path ahead changes: a clear-cut line indicating the end of this winter fae ridden hellscape is _finally_ in sight.

 

Of course, their final pursuer begins to emanate an aura of bitter, painful cold that leaves the beleaguered elf’s entire left side feeling severely frostbitten, as though it might literally be frozen solid.  Concerningly, the rescued prisoner struggles to weakly gasp in shallow breaths.  All the while, screaming winds continue to whip about them— strong enough to occasionally blow Édain entirely off her course— accompanied by thick blasts of heavy snowflakes that completely white out their field of vision every few seconds.

 

 **“Prince Nuada, cast off** **by your own court though you may be, if you take my property, it _will_ be a direct strike against the royal family of the Fae Winter Court.  Leave him to his fate, with me, and the offense shall be forgiven.  Take him, and we _will_ hunt him down,” ** he ominously promises. **“ _Never_ shall he again know peac—”**

 

The grave warning from the powerful fae is abruptly cut off as he is forced to turn his head and deflect the massive, iron fist flying his way with an effortless sweep of the glaive that had been at his back a breath earlier.  A perturbed sound escapes him, somewhere between a snarl and a hiss.

 

Wink’s well-timed distraction perfectly serves its purpose, and with one last burst of speed, Nuada, his loyal elk, and his new ward at long last pass through the vale and back into the mundane world.

 

For a moment, the figure seated against him revives at the change in setting and softly rasps in a particularly lengthy breath, before finally going fully limp, his head lolling forward on his neck.  Without much thought, the elf takes a moment to easily manipulate the lax body into sitting sidesaddle— if essentially half in his lap— and uses one hand to keep the male’s head tucked into the curve of his shoulder in hopes of preventing any painful clashes of the man’s skull to Nuada’s chin or jaw while moving.  That done,  he directs Édain to walk sideways and away from the border area, unsure of exactly where or at what pace his bodyguard will reenter the realm.

 

It is fortuitous that they have relocated, as the gigantic cave troll stampedes right past them on his way through, the chain that is usually connected to his detachable hand dangling conspicuously, broken off at a frosted over link.  Likely, this is the cause for the irritated frown and loud grumbling from his oldest friend: it is no easy feat to replace one of his goblin-forged prosthetics.

 

Most importantly, none of their pursuers have followed them, here, and so they set off at a brisk trot in search of the nearest friendly stop-off with an obliging enough host— ideally a Pucca— as well as rations for their overworked mounts.

 

Oddly, in spite of his borrowed heat-charmed cloak, the court escapee resting against Nuada gives a small shiver, then, spurring him to increase their pace, slightly.

 

“Wink,” he says, taking a moment to wave the troll forward, since the sullen behemoth had paused to fiddle with the mechanics on the remaining metal stump of his forearm. “Ride ahead and find a waystation from which we can leave this gods-awful continent, please.  We shall need safe passage to Inisfal’on, _immediately_.  Pay whatever amount you must, as it will not be long before they send out not only word of what has happened, but mercenaries, too.”

 

With a terse, grunted affirmation and a slight inclination of his head, the behemoth takes off at an even gallop.  As is true of many of his kind, he possesses the ability to nearly unerringly pinpoint the nearest marketplace or concourse, a truly invaluable skill under their current circumstances.

 

Exhaling a quiet gust of air that some would call an ‘exhausted sigh’ if it had come from a lesser being, a rather unsettled Nuada glances down at the head of chestnut hair that is as thoroughly windblown and threaded through with frost as his own undoubtedly is.

 

He knows not why he has felt so very compelled to keep this person safe, but it has been many, _many_ centuries since he has felt much of _anything_ besides what filters in from the atypical bond he shares with his sibling.  (That and the perpetual blaze of indignant fury at the continued, aberrant dominance of Man’s society upon the increasingly sickly planet, of course.  Admittedly, bloodlust and an occasional penchant for destruction are nothing new to him, either.)

 

In any case, his instincts have very rarely steered him wrong, and this strange new phenomenon is well worth a bit of exploration.  If anything, it will at least make for a brief bit of entertainment while on his journey to reclaim the Bethmooran throne and then the world, shortly thereafter.

 

*

 

It takes three days of careful, covert travel until they reach Nuada’s safe haven.  His homeland’s long-standing alliance with nearly every type of Pucca there is— even some that should be under the thrall of the Winter Court— has proven invaluable, and each and every gatekeeping shapeshifter has been thrilled to honor his curious, convoluted requests of portal-jumping.  (They’d taken measures to create misleading and confusing trails with as many dead ends as possible for any who might still be dogging their progress.)

 

Now, it is the dead of night, and he can feel his hardy mount slowing only an infinitesimal amount, despite several fraught days with not much food or sleep to be had for any in their party.  With a glance to Wink, he tilts his head to gesture at a particular trio of trees ahead of them in the darkened woods.  Where only moments ago, there had been the faint, grating sounds of a human city a scant few miles away and over a grassy ridge, there is a sudden, charged silence that blankets everything in the vicinity.

 

This typically goes faster, and so he grits his teeth in grim determination as the strange stillness becomes almost suffocating, pressing in on him and seeming to agitate the ailing burden in front of him, still resting partially in his lap.  Just as he begins weighing the pros and cons of grudgingly attempting to open up his connection to his sibling enough to contact her for aid, the heavy sensation of the forest’s protective magic retreats, and the center tree vanishes.  Then, like a well-choreographed dance, the two that had flanked it bend neatly towards one another, their branches knotting and tangling as they form a colossal archway.

 

When the very last bit of leafy canopy stills, the portal properly activates, showing an opaque image of the hamlet beyond.  The weary elf nudges Édain forward and Mr. Wink simultaneously follows his example, the thick-furred rhinoceros snorting loudly when the cave troll pats encouragingly between its ears.  The moment they cross the threshold of the ‘doorway’, the sound of bark scraping against bark and the whisper of leaves brushing by one another is audible, until, with a final creaking groan, the archway fully dismantles itself.

 

Not in any particular mood to indulge his long-time friend’s slowing pace, Mr. Wink promptly sets off down one dark street, towards their destination.  Since splitting up is no longer inadvisable, thanks to being in friendly territory, Nuada merely raises an eyebrow, before barely managing to stifle a yawn as he turns his mount in the same direction and follows the troll’s path.

 

Clouds aimlessly move about in the moonless sky, overhead, as he uses one hand to absently chafe the Winter Court escapee’s upper arm, draped with a Pucca-made throw, though it is.

 

Sweet home away from home, at last.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, their mounts are the very same creatures that they staged the attack on the BPRD base with. But who's surprised, right? 
> 
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	5. Chapter 5

 

Seeing his mother’s home for the first time in nearly two hundred years is a bit less dramatic than he supposes it should be, but he had redecorated much of the property and interior quite a long time ago, so it is really not so emotional as all that.  Yes, the air here always tastes a bit bittersweet, despite the massive number of flowers growing outside of and throughout Inisfal’on, but it has been over a millennium since her untimely death, so the numbed sharpness of the pain is bearable.

 

Temporarily bunking down in the Spring Court’s dominion is not ideal, but it _is_ necessary, he believes, to saving John’s life.  Fortuitously, they were one of the first factions to promise their support to his cause, due not only to his mother’s family already being very close allies of theirs, but also to his having used the Golden Army to seek vengeance on their behalf, during wartime.

 

His musings on their relocation to the sizable, semi-remote residence is interrupted by a rattling wheeze coming from the direction of the family room at the house’s front.  The tiniest of creases appears between his brows when he spots the intermittently shivering form of his new houseguest buried under an almost comical number of quilts and blankets.

 

During the tense, exhausting journey here, Myers had essentially completely crashed.  His constitution had already been compromised, thanks to his less than stellar accommodations with his captors, and the the grueling escape through harsh, wintery weather had not helped.  Crossing back into the human realm compounded with the fact that he had been being continuously drained of his life-essence for, likely, several fae-warped _years_ made the crash inevitable.

 

Seeing absolutely no threat to his getting close to the other male, Nuada does just that, instinctively analyzing the strange scent that he carries: it smells indistinctly of man, but more-so of something else that tickles at an answer that should be easier to recall.  Hmph.  It is a question to ask when the weakened being is up to answering anything more about his origins.  (At least he has managed to glean a working understanding of his background thanks to multiple bouts of fevered mumbling, so he knows that ‘BPRD’ has something to do with not only his employment, but his current state, as well.)

 

Shaking himself, mentally, the Bethmooran elf crouches before the plush, green and gold settee. 

 

“Myers.  Apologies, but it is time for you to take a bit of medicine.  Now can you sit up on your own, or will you be needing help?”

 

Without really waiting for a reply, he manages to find several limbs underneath the blanket and gets the younger man into some facsimile of an upright position.

 

“Now then, open up.”

 

Half lidded eyes look mostly straight through him, only briefly seeming to take in the sight of the phial filled with the now-familiar, iridescent orange fluid.  After wrinkling his nose in apparent distaste for the unpleasant flavor he is about to experience, the wan young man lifts an unsteady, blanket-covered hand up and takes the tiny glass container for himself.

 

There is a split second when Nuada fears this dose might end up wasted, upended accidentally on one of the several throws draped over his ‘patient’, but all goes well, and it is perhaps eight or nine seconds before he _does_ have to collect the empty phial.  The preternaturally bright blue eyes gazing somewhere over his shoulder, now, slide shut within perhaps fifteen seconds of the healing potion having been imbibed, leaving him to gingerly rearrange his guest into a more comfortable, reclined position, again.

 

Ascending to his full height again, Nuada shakes his head and resolves to get some training done, today, if only to combat this curious, almost invasive sense of softness he sometimes feels creeping up on him when in the presence of the rescued prisoner of the Winter Court.  Or perhaps he will travel a bit and see if he can gather any intel on the aforementioned creature.

 

By nature, he is suspicious of any new acquaintances, something that came even before his time in war or even his subsequent exile.  The thought that perhaps the entire situation might be an elaborate set-up with a Trojan Horse-esque angle has crossed his mind, especially as his political relationship— both personally, and officially— has been bordering on strained with the Winter Court as of late. 

 

It is only that this being, who smells only vaguely human, but still shares many features with the race, simply does not raise any such red flags.  And loathe though Nuada is to admit it, the smaller male is very… _earnest_ , somehow.  Or he has seemed so in his decreasingly frequent bouts of coherent consciousness, when he asks only for reassurance that he is really, truly out of the sprawling ice palace, at last.

 

The contemplative prince scoffs at his distracted train of thought; this is altogether too much agonizing over the whole matter, he decides, succinctly.  Obviously, he must take on another set of tasks for a while in order to clear his mind.  As he is still in comfortable loungewear, his first step is to freshen up and dress for an outing before determining his day’s agenda.

 

Within an hour’s time, he exits his set of rooms and makes a detour on the way out to knock on Mr. Wink’s heavy, metal door.  Not bothering to wait for the troll to actually appear, he simply raises his voice so it will carry more easily into the chambers beyond.

 

“Wink!  I am headed out for the day!  I should return by sunset, but if you are in need of me, I shall be in Talliro Village or the surrounding area.   If you would, make the occasional check on our guest, please.  _Navaarie, abbil_.”

 

On the way out, he again stops to look in on the pitiable figure curled up by itself in the family room, and nearly drifts forward to right a number of blankets set askew.  Instead, he steps outside the house and lets his feet carry him forward into the warm sun.

 

*

 

The human has not awakened fully, again, since that morning, when he had taken the dose of medicine under his own power.  Wink had informed his employer of this development as soon as the elf had returned from his small sojourn.  His reaction had been a grim expression and perhaps the tiniest amount of guilt, to which he would never admit having experienced at all.

 

As he is not quite sure if this might be the way humans react to this particular mixture when it begins to heal them, Nuada carries on attempting to keep to the regular schedule listed on the bottle of elixir, which is two doses a day: one at sunrise and another at sunset.

 

However, after the second day of this new state of affairs, something in him begins to clench in an emotion close to anxiety, and he knows with certainty that something is most definitely wrong.  He sends Wink off with the instruction for him to find the best healer he can on short notice and to bring them back here, as discreetly as possible, of course.

 

In the meantime, he switches a sizable quantity of the mountain of throws and blankets with those from his own bedchambers, as they offer a superior amount of warmth compared to the hodgepodge of options he had previously found in the guest quarters.

 

Still, though, the unconscious man shivers deeply, heedless of the temperate climate and the many layers of insulating bedding atop him.  Nuada has been able to painstakingly administer the last few doses of the potion, but it seems to be having absolutely no effect, worryingly.  It is also notable that the protracted ‘slumber’ he witnesses looks to be rife with nightmares, if the heartfelt pleading to ‘please’ not be ‘left there’ or ‘sent away’ are any indication.

 

By the time Wink finally returns, the sun has risen on the third straight day, and Nuada is perched on the edge of a chair he has dragged close to the settee.  He has remained awake since the other had left to search for help, and his aureate eyes immediately zero in on the smaller figure following the hulking form of his bodyguard.

 

The hard edge his gaze has developed over the umpteen hours he has spent impotently observing Myers’ suffering softens when he stands up and turns to the healer to greet her, warmly.  He is just about to decide whether or not a hug is appropriate after not seeing someone for a literal millennia, who had, essentially helped raise him, when the decision is made _for_ him.

 

The rather diminutive woman bustles right past him— ignoring the hand he had outstretched out of habit— and draws in close to the former BPRD agent bundled up on the couch, laying the palm of her hand on his forehead before closing her eyes for only a brief moment.

 

She snatches her hand from atop his brow and turns to pin Nuada with an accusatory glare.

 

“ _Who_ exactly has been in charge, here?”

 

Mr. Wink has, conveniently, already escaped the room as well any accompanying blame.

 

“You seem to have already concluded that I am,” he drawls.  “Are there any other rhetorical queries you wish to--”

 

“Nuada, you have literally been _killing_ this boy.”

 

The statement cuts short his stream of acerbic, irate words in a moment of shock.  He has been _what_?

 

“I-I have been giving him a healing potion for non-magical beings.  Exactly what do you mean I am _killing_ him?” he demands, uncharacteristically stuttering, initially, while trying to speak through the swell of horror gripping him.

 

The wizened healer sets down her oversized satchel on a large ottoman and begins to comb through its contents, quickly grasping a green-tinted glass ampoule and then a much larger phial of clear, colourless liquid.

 

Hardly paying the elven prince any attention, she glances up at the shivering figure before looking down into her bag again and grabbing one last very tiny bottle with her off-hand.  Within a few seconds, her knobbly, wizened hands deftly rearrange where each container is being held aloft, and there are quite suddenly only two left, thanks to some very expedient elixir mixing.

 

“Come over here, young one, and stop your scowling— all those stormy, broody expressions are why your face has begun to collect spare wrinkles before your twin’s.  And to think your mother and father could not tell you apart when you were still little elflings.”

 

The sharp candor serves its purpose, and Nuada’s mouth almost drops open at the insolence being shown to him.  He cannot say he has much missed this facet of his childhood physician’s personality.

 

“Sanas’er.  Please, now is not the time for your… unique brand of ‘humour’.  Is he able to be healed?”

 

As he speaks, the retired healer grunts in the affirmative, concentrated on the vial she holds, swirling the freshly made mixture continuously and looking for some unknown change in appearance.  Her reply is absent, as her attention is almost fully on her patient.

 

“Mm.  Should be fine, so long as he sticks to the course of potions I’ll be leaving behind.  _These_ ones will, of course, actually be calibrated for his biology, unlike the crap you’ve been poisoning him with.  Fae—even those of mixed blood— require very specific ingredients in what medicines they imbibe.  Fortuitously, as you know, I’ve some fae ancestry, and have perhaps a better working knowledge of all this than many _full_ elves might.”

 

The Bethmooran noble had begun to suspect something similar about his guest’s species, but still feels surprise at the pronouncement.  Did the Winter Court know of their prisoner’s status when they had branded him, or had they caused a change in his blood itself, somehow?

 

In the meantime, Sanas’er finishes preparing the large dose of elixir.  Apparently satisfied with the consistency and purple-indigo hue of her creation, she straightens up and gives the smaller greenish ampoule a quick shake, as well, before cracking it open only inches above John’s face.

 

“Now let’s see if this stuff is strong enough: it should be a minute or two before it takes effect.”

 

It takes effect in scarcely 12 seconds, and John comes to quickly, but groggily, his eyes not quite tracking anything, for a long moment.

 

His gaze re-focuses, first, on the healer as she unstoppers the remaining phial full of the dark potion.  As soon as the situation registers, the two elves watch as his respiration immediately accelerates and his fingers clutch the several layers of plush blankets.  When his already pallid complexion further pales and he shrinks deeper into the cushions, silent as the grave but resigned, Nuada takes action.

 

Without any real, conscious thought, he swiftly enters the part-fae’s sightline and even deigns to actually kneel beside the settee. 

 

“Be at ease, Mye— _John_.  You are safe, here. This is Sanas’er, an old friend, and my family’s former healer.  She only wishes to aid in your recovery, as Wink and I do not possess the necessary resources to do so completely on our own.  I would not so thoughtlessly allow harm to befall one under my protection, much less in my home.”

 

John peers into his again-saviour’s eyes for a very long time, almost panting from the exertion of the unfortunate fright he’s just had.  Suddenly, something changes in the luminescent blue depths, and the sickly young man inhales weakly before the haunted, wary air about him melts into pure exhaustion.

 

A far duller hue of cerulean than had been present moments ago meets the measured gaze of the elegantly dressed older woman who had allowed Nuada space to work his calming magic.

 

“I… I apologize,” John rasps, quietly.  “Wasn’t, uh, wasn’t entirely in the, uh, present, there, Ma’am.”

 

Sanas’er quirks a kind grin, intrigued at the almost sheepish tone from the young fae who still looks like death warmed over.  Without much pause, she jumps right back into the more rapid rhythm that this house call had begun with.

 

“No worries, Little One— I’m glad to finally meet you!  And _wow_ , look at those eyes of yours: no wonder this big, tense ball of seriousness and intense concern is hovering so closely nearby, hm?”

 

Before what she just said registers in John’s lethargic thought processes, she is presenting him with the same dark liquid from earlier.  Nuada looks torn between scowling at her typical, jovially flippant commentary, or rolling his eyes and scoffing.

 

“Right, then.  This is a general cure-all mixed in with about the highest dose of the most potent magic-restorative anyone can handle.  You’re new to your fae heritage, but I can promise you it cares not one whit, and that it will punish you if you aren’t careful about exactly which magical brews you imbibe.”

 

Raising one eyebrow, John takes the unstoppered phial and takes a moment to blearily glance at its swirling, glimmering contents before simply downing the whole thing and handing off the empty container to its original owner.  He also manages to remain unaware of his housemate’s wary frown, as he watches for any possible adverse effects of the treatment.

 

“Huh,” John quietly remarks to himself, a peculiar look on his face. “This tastes…”

 

“Rather delicious?  Like some sort of sugary treat, ideally.  Highly palatable potions are a specialty of mine, as they are _infinitely_ more appealing to young patients— even for proud little elfling princes visiting from Bethmoora.”

 

The implied subject, who has shuffled back to prop a hip against a nearby side table huffs a long-suffering sigh through his nose, clearly willing the appointment to rapidly come to a close, now that any immediate sense of danger seems to have passed.

 

If he weren’t so god-forsaken tired, John might be a bit miffed that he seems to have been given the equivalent of a kids version of a medicine.  As it is, he aims a dry look at the tittering healer.

 

“I could have taken the regular version, you know?  But still,” he manages through a yawn he’s just able to half-cover with a forearm, “thanks.”

 

“You are most welcome.  If it makes you feel any better, since I wasn’t sure whether you would be conscious, I simply packed something that would be much easier to coax into an unconscious patient.”

 

The words filter in even more slowly than they already have been since he was forcefully roused, several minutes earlier, and he begins to realize that his lengthening blinks are rapidly transitioning directly into him simply dropping off into a doze.  Stubbornly trying to fight the pull of more much-needed sleep, Sanas’er’s groggy patient squints blearily at the room, before finally allowing his heavy eyelids to slide shut.

 

“S’rry,” he slurs, almost inaudibly, looking far more relaxed, now.  “Thought I w’s back there ‘gain.  Don’ like when isstime to dr’nk posh’nss.”

 

The unforeseen burst of anger that rolls through Nuada is strong and directionless, leaving him to struggle with exactly where to aim his ire for the Fae Winter Court, as has no immediate way to diffuse it.  In the meantime, John’s head lolls against a cushion as he slowly lists to one side.

 

Still feeling a bit discomfited by his own oscillating mental state, Nuada hesitates in his motion forward, whereas Sanas’er does not.  In short order, she nudges the young fae into a more comfortable, horizontal position.

 

“Odd.  Thought the bit of sleeping draught would hit him a bit sooner,” she mutters to herself, intrigued.

 

Before straightening up, the old medic surreptitiously presses her palm to John’s pale forehead, likely to do a shallow reading of his state.  In spite of her spry and energetic nature, the younger elf is reminded of her fairly advanced age when he hears a few creaks and cracks as she stands up with her bag in hand and turns around to face him.

 

Her adoring smile and heartfelt bedside manner had made her one of his mother’s favourite commissioned members of their staff, but her clever jibes and wicked sense of humour had left her on his father’s list of people he ‘barely tolerated’.  It is truly a wonder that Sanas’er had, generally speaking, mostly behaved herself, today.

 

The sound of several glass bottles gently touching down on the raised table to his side has him pursing his lips at her unnecessary show of minor magic.

 

“Well, I’m off now, young prince.  You’ll find a week or so’s worth of elixirs, there, for your ailing young man.  You know— the one you’ve been haplessly poisoning, recently?”

 

He may have spoken too soon, earlier, about her improved behavior.

 

“Indeed, and I am most gracious to you for your timely intervention and aid.  Now, I assume you have left instructions for his continued care and recovery, yes?”

 

Ushering her gently toward an exit, with a hand at her back is a tried and true method to hasten her purposefully prolonged and torturous farewells.

 

“Of course, of course.  Now, one last thing, Noden,” she says as she steps outside, instantly garnering his attention by addressing him with his more personal appellation.

 

“You must be extremely careful with your former-Agent Myers for a bit, while he rebuilds his strength.  The poor boy will be especially sensitive to chills until he recovers— something you have undoubtedly already noticed, what with half your quilts and comforters keeping him company, in there.”

 

“Furthermore,” she continues, “he is not yet able to handle any _strenuous_ physical activity.  Well, not for another week or two, in any case.”

 

Nuada’s eyebrows climb about as high as they can on his forehead, and anyone else might have sputtered.

 

“I— _pardon_ , but precisely _what_ have you surmised is happening, here?” he retorts sharply, feeling at once unamused and yet almost guilty, as though he has been caught sneakily dipping into the dessert dish in the kitchens, as when he was a child.

 

Sanas’er grins guilelessly and tucks several stray wisps of her silver-gilded, coppery hair back into their braid as a gentle breeze rolls by.

 

“Nuada, I have known you since the moment you and your sister entered this world.  Remember this.  And besides, I am, _of course_ , only referring to exercise, such as sparring or training; I can only wonder at what strange places your mind wanders.”

 

Her jovial expression suddenly sobers, and she grasps his bicep in lieu of his hand, as he had defensively crossed his arms quite some time ago.  He meets her gimlet gaze seriously, sensing a change in her demeanor.

 

“Though I cannot share with you what I found when evaluating him for injuries, earlier, I _can_ tell you that he has been through much, recently, and that it has changed him, inside and out: spirit, mind, and body.

 

“Do take care of him— he still has that bright light inside of him, though it might have been dimmed or somehow altered.  In time, that may improve under certain circumstances, but as his case is completely unique, there is no way to be certain of any particular outcome.

 

“Oh!”  She tightens her grip on his upper arm before releasing it entirely in order to briefly lay her palm over her forehead. “And don’t forget to tell him of his new sensitivity to iron, like my absent-minded old self just did.  He is, after all, well over fifty percent fae, at this point.  Alright!  That’s all— truly.  Apologies for keeping you away from your _duties_ awaiting inside, Your Highness.”

With that, she bows deeply, pivots on the spot and exits through the front gates, all before the bewildered prince can get a word in edgewise.

 

In the wake of Sanas’er’s whirlwind presence, Nuada exhales, rests his hand on his hip, and closes his eyes for several moments to center himself before turning to go back inside.  It is a wonder he always manages to forget exactly how much of a tumultuous excitement she can wield. 

 

Deeming enough time to have passed for his thoughts to resettle into a normal rhythm, he turns about and re-enters the home, contemplating exactly how many fae-friendly potions ingredients he has in his stores, and where he might acquire more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _Navaarie, abbil_ - **Thank you, friend **.** _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I've ever written an OC, before, so I hope y'all like Sanas'er. Nuada certainly does(n't). c;  
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	6. Chapter 6

 

John is mostly hale and hearty by day four of his six-day course of tonics, restoratives, and draughts galore.  (Day one had featured him sleeping, taking potions, and sleeping even more.  Day two had been revelatory, in that he had been able to move about under his own autonomy, if a bit unsteadily, and he’s been feeling exponentially better with each passing day.)

 

Much to his chagrin, though, there is nothing to be done about the small brand on his wrist, which remains the most visible reminder of his time living as property of the Winter Court.  His sleep is still somewhat restless, but he is at least able to rouse himself, and no longer comes to gazing disorientedly at the face of a sleep-mussed Bethmooran prince through eyes filmed with tears.

 

Thankfully, his nights are improving alongside his physical condition, with additional thanks to the stable environment.  Again, this is wonderful, as he is _really_ not sure how much mortification it is healthy to feel after what feels like years of mostly deadened or forcibly compartmentalized emotion.  He’s not entirely sure the guy hadn’t literally dried his tears at one point, but there’s plausible deniability on both sides if he never asks and Nuada is never forced to confirm anything, he figures.

 

The cherry on top has been his realization that he is most definitely developing quite the irredeemably embarrassing, hopeless crush on the overtly handsome, stately elf.  He’s not sure most crushes include feeling phantom chest pain between visits from the object of one’s affection, but experiencing literal heartache might just be another strange Winter Court captivity side-effect showing up as he spends more time back in the real world.

 

All the additional reading he’s been provided is a very welcome distraction.  The books detail several aspects of his changed physiology and provide comprehensive information on the workings of this world beyond the vale, which is so much more vast and dynamic than even the BPRD has ever imagined, much less known of.  His impressively well-read housemate even encourages John to ask pertinent questions as he ‘studies’.  With not much to do but recover, be bored, and contend with increased curiosity about exactly what it _means_ to be Fae, he is a most excellent student, reading voraciously and assimilating the newfound knowledge quickly. 

 

The rare catnaps in his favoured chair in the den where he does most of his reading are, of course, _totally_ purposeful choices that will serve to benefit his level of concentration once he wakes up and hops back to the task at hand.

 

On day five, lamentably, the conked out young man misses the amazing sight of the lumbering, gargantuan Mr. Wink chuckling, then carefully drawing near and laying a worn throw over his shoulders before exiting the room again on perplexingly quiet feet.

 

*

 

On day _six_ , John is awoken in the late morning by Nuada, who has prepared a small meal that is heartier than any he has been indulged with, so far.  (Full, unmodified meals are a huge benefit of getting better.)

 

They eat in companionable silence and John is, as he is more and more often, struck by the unique beauty of the other man.  There are lines— some raised while others look carved— left in almost geometric arrangements that accentuate the features around and over which they travel.  If he looks particularly carefully, he can spot the occasional faint hint of a crow’s foot at the corner of an eye, or a faint line denoting age on the otherwise smooth forehead.  His gaze absently meanders down to the ‘v’ of skin that is visible above the fold of Nuada’s elegant house robes, catching on the swell of a well-defined pectoral, and leaving him to wonder if there are maybe more markings anywhere else.

 

He is pulled from his in-depth study of his subject by the subject himself, who asks if he is alright, as he has apparently been largely unresponsive for several minutes.  Palate dry, John meets those pale goldenrod eyes and scrambles for something to say that hopefully seems remotely topical.  (Except, what _is the_ topic?)

 

“Ah, yes.  I’m just— I’m just enjoying the tea, is all.  Trying to figure out what exactly is in there.  What kind of… blend it is, you know?”

 

Nuada hides a grin behind his own porcelain cup, dry mirth dancing in his eyes and colouring his reply.

 

“Truly?  That’s most curious, as today, we are both drinking a fresh mixture of fruit nectar.  Although, if you’d prefer tea, I _do_ have several fresh blends of fruit teas at hand.” 

 

John does blush, then— and he’s shocked he’d managed to fend it off for so long, really.  Clearing his throat, the sleep-rumpled young man then takes a long, first dreg of the aforementioned sweet juice, his gaze deliberately averted to one side.

 

The guy who saved his damn life cracks half a smile over a small brunch and all the FBI training in the world (on top of an out of whack emotional cortex) couldn’t save John from determinedly eating his own foot.

 

With an internal, defeated sigh, he moves to clear the table of dishes as Nuada leaves to likely clean up and get ready for… whatever it is, exactly, that he does all day.  (He’s pretty sure it has to do with building support for his whole revenge plot/coup/thing he’s working on.)  When the  elf rather abruptly returns a half minute later, he drops two things onto the table: a set of mahogany-hued dragonhide gloves and a burnished, metallic mask that features only two cutouts for eyes.

 

He raises curious eyes to Nuada, who is smoothing down the thick bands of fabric that wrap about the lower third of his tunic, similar to a gigantic belt, or wildly oversized cummerbund.  Except, you know, full of typical Elvish Elegance and Style™.

 

“If you feel yourself capable of doing so, you may accompany me as I run several errands in town, today.  I assume that although your new quarters have a lovely view overlooking some of our surroundings, you might wish to explore your new environment.”

 

‘Excited’ does not begin to describe the cavalcade of emotions running through the ex-BPRD agent at the prospect of an imminent excursion, but ‘beyond elated’ would be a fair way to boil it down.

 

“Be sure _never_ to leave this place without first donning the mask and gloves, though.” Nuada cautions him, seriously. “There is still quite a bit of… ‘heat’ on you, for lack of a better term.  In time, and with yet more distance, that should fade, but for now, even in my company, maintaining your safety is paramount.”

 

Unable to keep still, even while being warned of the danger inherent in leaving the safehouse, John soon finds that the gloves are not only a perfect fit, but that they perfectly cover up the tattooed sigil of the winter court that so discomfits him.  Immediately, his hands feel warmer than they have in quite some time, and he’s sure it isn’t solely due to the new dragonhide accessories he’s sporting.  He can’t help but to smile amicably at the elf standing nearby, feeling compelled to express exactly how grateful he is to even _be_ here.

 

“Not sure if I’ve said it while coherent, but _thank you_ ,” he says, almost surprising himself with the words’ effusive delivery.  “Thank you for- for absolutely _everything_.  If I can _ever_ repay you for all that y—”

 

“John,” Nuada cuts in smoothly.  “Please, it is of no import.  You certainly seem an honorable man— ah— an honorable… _being_ , so this is the least I can do.”

 

“Still, thanks.  And ‘fae’ is fine.  Most of what I’ve read says it’s the generally accepted, simplified term.  And even though I… I’m not happy about my newfound similarity to my former captors, distancing myself from what I am, now, won’t undo what’s been done.”

                                                                                                    

The young man subconsciously grasps his right wrist, holding the mark there, fully covered by material, though it is.

 

“Indeed.  Now, we need not depart for roughly another hour.  Feel free to utilize the facilities to refresh yourself as needed before we leave: we’ll rendezvous at the gates before leaving.”

 

With nary another suddenly gruffly-delivered word, Nuada strides off in the direction from which he’d come.

 

John absently traces the smooth metal mask with one leather-covered hand before removing the gloves and placing them next to it, heading off to his own living quarters with a small, implacable grin.

 

*

 

By the time they regroup in order to leave the safeguarded homestead, the buoyant mood from earlier has melted away and left them several steps above the dry cordiality reserved for an unenthused relative hosting one around their local landmarks and scenery.

 

The bustling little city is livelier than John might have expected— elves with hair in rich tones ranging from fiery red through more natural tones of auburn or light brown and all the way up into warm, honey blonde hues meander to and fro among the occasional other supernatural being.  He’s pretty sure he’s seen some versions of non-winter fae wandering about, too, which easily differentiated from members of the Winter Court by their own hair and eye colours, luckily.

 

Thankful that at least his unseemly tourist-stare is not easily seen, he takes in the modest homes and businesses, which are done in light, natural tones and sport an interesting mixture of Baroque and Neo-Moorish sensibilities and shapes.  The safehouse seems entirely consistent with the aesthetic, if not on a grander, more opulent scale: the majority of these buildings are no more than two floors, and have about the same tight spacing as one might find in the homes bracketing the narrow streets in an old Italian town.

 

Almost every piece of terra cotta-coloured architecture they pass by is a revelation to the masked fae, who has virtually no memory of his incognito, dead-of-night arrival to the sprawling hamlet. His companion, though, seems utterly at ease, inclining his head in response to several greetings, and occasionally exchanging a few brief words with others they come across during their short sojourn into town.

 

In any case, they do set to finally running their errands.  The pair picks up, first, several curious ingredients in various stages of solid and liquid, and shortly thereafter, a small satchel about which the contemplative elf asks for John’s opinion.

 

Those trials completed, they circle around the main market square and buy a spare knick-nack or two for Mr. Wink as well as some other seemingly arbitrary small items and powders.

 

Then they meanderingly make their way home, making sure to take the most scenic route possible for John’s benefit.  The younger of the two listens attentively as a particularly nostalgia-laden Nuada tells him of how much larger this town was, once upon a time.   Of how it was actually at the heart of a cluster of large settlements belonging to those of varied supernatural races and species.

 

With quiescent words, and under the warm midday sun, he paints a picture of exactly how big the old city was.  And then, in as few acerbic-sounding phrases as possible, he mentions that the population had been decimated not very far into war that Man waged upon them.

 

They have made a circuit, of sorts, through the town, at this point, and so begin heading back to Nuada’s residence.  John glances at his walking partner when the imposing warrior prince huffs and seems to almost be at war with himself for a moment, as though trying to come to a decision about something.  The elf glances briefly into the bright blue eyes already peering in his direction before setting his own focus on the verdant line of tall trees on the horizon that border this little remaining safe haven.

 

“This is where my father, _King_ Baleros, first met my mother, Nethlenn— where they fell in love.”

 

Intrigued by Nuada’s surprisingly open, sharing sort of mood, John muses to himself only internally, and not aloud, not wanting to put a stopper on this free flow of information he is getting from his savior cum housemate.  Maybe on another walk— if he is so lucky as to be able repeat this scenario in the future— he’ll share the highlights of his _own_ parents in turn.  (It will be a very short story, as his father had died when he was barely out of diapers, and his mother had left shortly thereafter, never to be heard from again.  Thank God for kind, distant uncles, though, right?)

 

He snaps out of his slightly maudlin reverie in time to catch the barest hint of a wry smile on the other male’s lips, as he continues speaking in an embittered tone that is thoroughly laced with a deep-seated, disgusted anger.

 

“It is also where she was slain, during the first half of the Ancient War that Mankind waged upon us for no reason other than to find yet more places and things to _own_ , claim, and inevitably _ruin_.”

 

John winces as an especially deep pang of grief grips him tightly, setting in so deeply that he has to actively resist the instinct to lay a hand over his sternum.  Now where had _that_ come from? 

 

“Nuada, I.  I’m _so_ sorry.”

 

The elf’s brow tightens momentarily, and he brushes his long hair behind one ear, choosing not to acknowledge what must, to him, surely be a categorically underwhelming expression of sympathy. Instead, as they round the last bend on the way back to what had once been his mother’s home, the exiled prince clears his throat, lightly.  His voice is quiet— the most quiet John has ever heard it.

 

“She truly loved this place and even made time to bring us along to visit on the rare occasion we took vacations away from home.”

 

“Us?” the part-fae says, raising an eyebrow and turning to meet the measured gaze that had wandered to him the moment he’d spoken.  (Again, he wonders at the relative clarity of his voice as it emerges into the air, unmuffled in spite of the construct of magic and metal obscuring his features.)

 

“Yes.  My sister and I.  We are what our people call _toror’sir_ — mirrored spirits **.**   ‘Twins’, as you would say.  That, however, is a subject for another time.”

 

The easy, relaxed air dissipates, then, as they catch sight of Mr. Wink outside the front gates, seemingly awaiting their arrival before he sets out on whatever sort of errands a cave troll must run.

 

The gigantic bodyguard bows respectfully to his approaching employer, with one forearm crossed over his massive chest— a gesture John has seen the occasional person make, today, as they made their rounds.The stoic elf nods to his behemoth traveling companion in response, who grins his usual gap-toothed smile before plodding off in the same direction from which they’ve come.

 

Nuada motions for John to precede him indoors and to safety.

 

As they move through the front door, a curious, tickling sensation not unlike walking through a particularly thick veil of cobwebs makes John’s nose wrinkle; the protection wards layered with the strong glamour over the residence’s entrance take getting used to, woven together as tightly as they are.

 

He completely misses the bemused quirk of an eyebrow and the barely perceptible upward tilt of a corner of the prince’s lips.  The elf is intrigued by the way his part-fae houseguest often brushes off a great lot of nothing from his arms after passing through almost any ward or field of magic.  (Interestingly, it is indicative that John is likely preternaturally sensitive to heavy glamours and other magical signatures that are made to be ‘invisible’, even to most supernatural beings).

 

Said bemused prince strides forward, heading toward the armory with his student-to-be in tow, eventually entering the moderately spacious room, which is moderately well-lit by snatches of ambient light and arbitrarily placed bioluminescent blue orbs in various glass jars.

 

“Come.  Today you shall learn the practical side of several subjects you have so far seen only in text.  Ideally, I shall also show you how to make several types of useful grenades as well as both offensive and defensive pocket-sized bombs.  In this way, you shall always have a near-guaranteed escape route should you ever find yourself pursued by an assailant with whom you do not wish to fight, _but_ you will also be ready and able to face an enemy if you absolutely must.”

 

Cautious in his approach until beckoned forward, the younger man places the bulk of their purchases atop the sturdy, waist-high table that is at the room’s center, glancing about to take in every last corner of the mini armory as subtly as he can without all-out gawking at the range of impressive weaponry on display.

 

It is a little bit surprising for him to even really be worried about staring, or even displaying something like abject nervousness, but day by day, something in him seems to be thawing— or perhaps being uncovered— and a wider range of emotions is again becoming more readily available to him.  For example, there’s a fair amount of anticipation to _finally_ do something more hands-on during his recovery from his imprisonment in Antarctica.

 

He’s been eager to find a purpose and an outlet for his returning energy, but that excitement has been tempered by another, less welcome emotion: fear.  (If he examines the root cause of _this_ amorphous, oft-present feeling, it is almost sure to be directly linked to his unshakeable anxiety about being left out in the wilderness, cold and alone.  Again.  Except this time, he knows there would be no other serendipitously helpful elven saviors to fight his battles for or with him.)

 

Biting his lip, briefly, before bringing his gaze back to the muscled figure moving about near a wall featuring several sets of matching, twin swords, he bides his time to try and bring his mind back into the real world. Doing his level best to tamp down the secondary wave of trepidation about the new direction his post-captivity education in all subjects magical and supernatural is about to go, he voices a slightly wary query, aiming to inject a bit of dry humor into his tone.

“All in _one day_?  Either this is super easy, or we’re doing something much more complicated tomorrow.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Nuada says, without much import, full on smirking, “we shall begin your thirty days of weapons training.   Likely with a single blade and some smaller projectiles, to start.”  

 

John’s head whips up and he gazes, stunned, at the other male.

 

“ _Weapons training_?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _Toror'sir_ - **Mirrored spirits; twins. _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! Nuada is _trying_. And John is doing his damnedest to ignore his embarassing crush on said elf. 
> 
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


	7. Chapter 7

 

In truth, over the next _several_ days, John is taught how to build a small array of pocket-sized bombs with varying effects and uses.  (He can readily admit that his absolute _favourite_ ones are the magic-infused smoke bombs: not only does he feel like some kind of ninja from one of the Saturday morning cartoons of his childhood, but the fact that the smoke actually subtly redirects the attention of anyone nearby with a charm of Suggestion is extra useful.)

 

More importantly (and exhaustingly), he begins to learn swordcraft from what has to be the absolute toughest instructor he has ever had for any form of combat **:** one Prince Nuada Silverlance.  The stern elf trains him efficiently, but with such intent and focus that John wonders if there is already a supernatural/magical war on, somewhere, that he hasn’t heard of or read about.  If not, this level of preparation has _got_ to be almost fanatical.

 

In any case, his occasional lessons with Mr. Wink are a little less intense, but much more grueling, as the gigantic guard focuses on building his strength and overall level of fitness.  (Dear _God_ , it is torture to do lunges and squats across the length of the courtyard and back, but it is almost unbearable when the super buff troll begins loading him up with weights to hold, beforehand, too).  By the time they graduate to close quarters, bare-knuckle (and foot) sparring, John is at least able to keep up, in spite of several days, early on, of aching in places that had never before ached so fiercely.

 

His newly acquired fae blood must be doing _something_ , though, as he is now able to move far more quickly than he ever has before, and seems to have developed an accelerated healing rate, too.  It also amazes him that his stamina and strength surpass anything he had ever possessed as a mundane human: several days ago, he had thrown a punch so hard, it had actually dented Wink’s nigh-indestructible mechanized forearm.  (Of course, the troll had proudly grinned his wide, gap-toothed smile at him before taking advantage of his distraction and hefting the far smaller being right over his shoulder in a sudden toss, leaving him sprawled on the dusty ground, groaning **.** )

 

And all this progress is well and good, except that as their 4 weeks of hyper comprehensive training come to a close, John notices that contrary to what he had expected, instead of ramping down the punishing level of aggression and overall difficulty of each concept in the ‘curriculum’, the exiled member of the Bethmooran royal family instead seems to go even harder in each session.

 

To John’s chagrin, both his tutor’s mood as well as his words directly parallel the physical portion of the daily regimen, and are more taciturn than he has ever had the misfortune to experience while in his company.

 

*

 

Panting and covered in sweat, John stumbles to the side, before bracing himself and redistributing his weight in order to better push back into the unyielding pressure being exerted on his trembling arms.  The accompanying fiery gaze seems set to scald him as the prince looms over him, pressing his extended lance with a considerable portion of his strength onto his student’s guarded stance, blocked by quavering twin blades crossed in a defensive ‘x’.

 

More than a bit irritated after several, long days of increasing, unnecessary tension in their (supposedly) friendly sparring sessions and supplementary training time, John’s patience has run out.  Feeling something odd, like an itch in the palms of his hands, he finds a new reserve of stamina and pushes forward against the weight driving down against him and, suddenly, not only are they out of their clinch, but his opponent is skidding backward several feet on the ground.

 

Not noticing how the temperature has dropped several degrees in their immediate vicinity, the fuming (i.e. confused and mildly hurt by his housemate’s behaviour) fae stalks up to the somewhat surprised-looking warrior and squares his shoulders, shooting his own glare at his opponent.  He is also utterly unaware that his bright blue eyes are gently glowing— backlit like a beam of light being shone through painted glass.

 

“You!  You have been _completely_ miserable for no apparent reason for the past three or four days, which, on its own, isn’t unbearable.  However, the way that you’re taking it out on _me_ , _is,_ ” he says heatedly, uncaring of how _mortified_ he will be, later, having _yelled_ at his endlessly generous host who is also _literal_ royalty.  “Just _what_ has crawled so far up your ass that you think _this_ is the right way to treat someone you said you were glad to help, not too long ago?”

 

He exhales heavily— tremulously, losing steam and considerable volume as he concludes his diatribe.  His heart sinks, as he finally catches up: it’s happening again, just like it had with Hellboy and his team.  Just like it had at the BPRD’s Antarctica base.

 

“If you- if you want me gone, just _tell me_.  There’s no need t-”

 

Seemingly stricken by something he has just heard, Nuada heedlessly drops the frost-gilded (and when had _that_ happened?) lance in his hands to the ground and moves forward to seize the increasingly forlorn-looking fae by the biceps, who stutters for a moment at the sudden contact and proximity, confusion evident.

 

“Nuada?”

 

The Bethmooran crown prince seems to be struggling with something, his face looking pained for a moment before he glances to the side, growling in apparent frustration.  When his gaze cuts back to meet John’s, it is the most open the other has ever seen the typically guarded, golden orbs in all the time they have spent together.

 

“John.  I—  I cannot lose you.  I _will not_ ,” he utters, almost desperately, as if the words are being dragged up without his approval and against his better judgement.

 

A single snowflake— the first of many that begin to gently fall around them— comes to rest on the dark lashes which frame eyes that John finds himself getting lost in, now, as their bodies drift closer together.  A palm, comfortingly over-warm, as always, is moved to rest along his jaw, cupping his face as the uncharacteristically emotional potentate before him continues speaking, words now intense **.**

 

“Though I have not long been in your company, I know that there is something between us.  Something which has grown stronger with every moment I spend in your presence and, with time, may define me more than any campaign or battle in which I have fought.”  His other hand brushes down John’s side and comes to rest over his waist, tightening slightly when the shorter man shivers with burgeoning chill. 

 

“I—.  Part of my soul is entwined with my sibling’s, and I resent it more with every day, when it means that I can only ever, selfishly, offer part of myself to you.  But I _want to_.  So I offer you every piece of me I am able.”

 

The stunned part-fae’s eyes dip from the wildly vulnerable gaze of the elf before him and watch as those lips, darkened as if stained by ink, form a final, hushed plea.

 

“Please, A’mael, do not _ever_ leave me.”

 

With a clatter, the heavy training swords fall from John’s cold hands— something he doesn’t notice, but will later regret, as he shaves off a good slice of one of his priceless, gifted boots.  He grips the chilled leather at the front of Nuada’s doublet and reels him in for a long-awaited kiss.

 

Something within him unspools at the first touch of their lips, and a warmth he has yearned for since his time in captivity spills out through his entire body.  If not for the solid points of contact grounding him in the moment, he feels he might float away with the whirling little flurries of ice around them.

 

With a deep groan, the equally enamoured prince caresses the silken skin of the jaw underneath his weapon-calloused hand, finally finding relief from the tension he has been building up between himself and his companion for quite some time.

 

However, when he feels the body within his hold again quiver in reaction to the lowered temperature, he pulls back from their embrace to gaze down into a face flushed rather entreatingly.  Preternaturally bright arctic blue irises nearly eclipsed by super-dilated pupils are slowly revealed, then begin to contract as John blinks several times, seemingly trying to clear his head.

 

The smile he sports, thereafter, is one that incites Nuada to crack a brief one of his own for several seconds, before the Bethmooran elf lightly frowns and glances up at the highly localized bit of winter weather they are experiencing.

 

“Hm,” he intones.  “It would seem that our sparring session is done for the day, yes?  Let us retire to the more temperate environment of the den, where we can discuss our imminent journey to my father’s court.”

 

“Mm,” John hums, absently, even as he picks up his iced-over swords from the white-dappled ground, still in a content, rather dreamy state.

 

“Indeed,” the bemused prince returns, indulgently, securing his minimized lance to his back and then glancing at the grinning, high-spirited fae that has at last gathered all his effects.  “And _tomorrow_ , we will begin training that impressive ice magick of yours, too.”

 

His longer legs quickly eat up the distance between he and the doorway, where he awaits his lollygagging, newly-minted partner.

 

“Now come along— we must get you warmed up, again.  Cold fingers are clumsy turning the heavy pages of thick, old tomes detailing fae elemental spellwork.”

 

The prospect of going back to studying theory out of dry, old text finally manages to pull the other male out of his endorphin-fueled reverie, eliciting a heartfelt groan and a mulish moue as he finally trudges indoors.

 

Nuada does not even attempt to stifle his chuckles as he reseals the wards behind them.

 

*

 

Over the next week, they discover that John has a decent range of ice magic at his finger-tips, thanks to some of the tom-foolery and experimentation his captors had done while he was in their less than auspicious ‘care’.

 

In draining him of a portion of his life force and indeed, some of the very pureness of his heart, repeatedly, they had had to re-bolster what was left and heal him in order to start the process all over again.  More often than not, in their greed, they had wished to accelerate that healing process, and thus imbued him with all sorts of quick remedies— including direct infusions of fae blood, several times, when they had taken far too much of his own.  The end result meant John had been left more fae and magical than human and mundane.

 

Or so theorizes Sanas’er, having checked over Nuada, Mr. Wink, and finally, John, one last time before they are to depart for Nuada’s father’s court.

 

The old medic does, of course, reiterate the warning to John to be wary of anything made of iron, as he has a sensitivity to it that is fairly typical of his new species.  She _also_ literally speaks over the indignant part-human’s head to soberly remind the prince that although his lover can wield strong magic, now, that the younger male, paradoxically, shows an adverse reaction to winter-type magicks, and that the more of his own power that is used, the more it will weaken the fledgeling fae.

 

The grim-faced elf nods and shoots a glance at his lover— one that surely promises more training when they reach their next safe haven.  John sighs and barely resists rolling his eyes, not wishing to incur a lecture from either the well-meaning healer or his over-protective paramour.  Determined as he is to get this long-winded, interminable post-checkup spiel out of the way, he almost misses the comment the healer makes as she slowly braces herself up and off of her stool.

 

“Lastly, Mr. Myers, you may want to use some salve on your neck, just there,” she points one finger in the general direction of his jaw. “That bruise looks as though it must be quite sore, no?”

 

Even as his hand reflexively comes up to cover the offending spot, John turns red to the very tips of his lightly tapered ears and casts an accusing glare at Nuada, hissing his name lowly.  Unfased, the aged medic makes a show of moving towards her bag, eyes twinkling all the while as she eyes the young couple with unabashed amusement.

 

“I have several options, here, if you’d like.  Some relieve the ache while others help vanish the mark.  Unless, of course, you both prefer to leave everything just as it is—”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Nuada smoothly cuts in, seemingly unperturbed by any of the exchange, but sympathetic to his partner’s suffering, all the same.  “Well, I thank you dearly for your unparalleled quality of work and medical expertise, as well as for taking time out of your busy schedule with your students to see us off, Sanas’er.  Allow me to help with your satchel, here, and Mr. Wink will show you out.”

 

With a supremely innocent smile, she gratefully accepts the prince’s help, turning briefly to bow lightly in deference to both Nuada and John at the door before taking Mr. Wink’s flesh arm as the door shuts behind them. 

“Oh my _God_.  Has she _always_ been this way?” John gripes, long-sufferingly, subconsciously rubbing at the hickey on his throat before dropping his arm back down and attempting to will away the stubborn blush on his face.  He pulls on one glove, pressing down on the grooves between each finger to ensure the fit is comfortable before turning to a trinket-laden high table against the wall in search of the rest of his accoutrements.

 

“And _don’t_ think I didn’t see how smug you looked for half a second looking at your handiwork.  You have _got_ to stop with the biting thing!  I know for a fact that you have not one drop of vampire blood in your ancestry, so this is just getting ridiculous, now.”

 

The wash of cool air that brushes over his back and shifts his hair, momentarily, is the only warning he has before his lover makes use of his incredible speed to firmly plant himself in John’s personal space.  If it weren’t for the sheathe holding both of his swords secured at his back, the elf would surely be completely plastered, front to back, against him.

 

As it is, when he leans forward to lay the misplaced glove on top of the table, he bends close enough to nose along the edge of the part-fae’s jaw, deliberately teasing out a shiver when the sensation passes over the bruised flesh nearby.

 

“Mm.  I’ll stop with the ‘biting thing’ when you stop _enjoying_ it, _A’mael_ ,” he chuckles, backing away to glance around the room one last time and secure the sword sheathed at his side before doing the same with the lance at his back.

 

John spins around, mask tucked under one arm, and shoots him a half-hearted glare, which promptly melts away when he, himself, helplessly huffs out an affectionate chuckle.  He absently flexes his hands and adjusts the fit of his gloves, now that he has donned both, and passes by his distracted other half in order to pull open one tall, ornate door.

 

“Well?  Come on, Dracula: I can hear Wink grumbling from here.  Don’t have to speak Truhlka to know he’s complaining about how late we’re leaving.”

 

“Indeed,” said unconcerned elf murmurs, stepping close to press a brief kiss to John’s lips before gently taking the mask from the other’s dragonhide-clad hands and covering the beloved visage.

 

That completed, Nuada ushers the younger man forward and outside towards the gate, pulling the heavy door closed behind them, knowing it will automatically lock as per the layers upon layers of protective wards.

 

“If there is time to spare on this journey, we can make a stop to visit my old acquaintance, Vlad, himself.  I’m sure he and his brood would _love_ to hear some of your witty, _vampyr_ e-based banter, mm?”

 

John rolls his eyes as he climbs onto his own new mount, a sleek black steed, and deigns not to respond to the dry remark.

 

After all, why would they visit the vampires in lieu of another potential ally when they’d declared themselves neutral literal ages ago.

 

*

 

By moving discreetly and in disguise until they are firmly within the familiar territory that is the outskirts of King Balor’s original realm, they make relatively quick work of traveling, and manage to attract not a single mercenary working for the Winter Court in pursuit of John, their escaped bounty.

 

They also spend time enough together for the prince to finally identify with certainty that, yes, the strange but enchanting part-fae is truly his _m’ranndii_ : his soul’s mate.  When he quietly reveals this, one night, as they lie side-by-side beneath the endless, constellation-crowded sky, he receives a smile he has never before seen on those familiar features.

 

Under the limited light that the crescent moon provides, it feels solemn and secret when he goes on to promise his beloved that so long as they both draw breath, he shall never again find himself cold or alone in the world, nor without a friend.

 

Initially, the impassioned elf begins to continue at length, intending to tell John that he will literally give him the world if he desires it, and that the sun and the moon would also pose no challenge if he desired them, as well, except that the man lying prostrate at his side interrupts him.

 

“I love you, too, Nuada,” he cuts in, grin crooked and cheeks tinted with a slight blush that his lover’s superior sight still picks up with relative ease. “And what I want most is to be by your side for as long as I’m here on this Earth.  Especially if it’ll one day look the way you have described it to me: full of _life_ , again.”

 

Tawny eyes had lit up the moment he’d started to speak, their colour nearly ghostly in the relative darkness.  As he goes on, John’s gaze hardens with vindictive resolve he borrows from the elf next to him.

 

“Should’ve said something sooner, but, well, aside from my feelings for you, it can be pretty hard to identify quite _what_ I feel towards certain subjects.  It often takes a while to… ‘locate’ emotions, which is probably why I took to meditating so well once you’d taught me.  It’s been a helpful tool to sift through whatever it is I’m feeling on any given day, if anything, beyond my mildly obsessive affections toward you.”

 

He shoots a warm, quelling look at Nuada, whose brow has slightly creased in worry for his mate’s previously unspoken struggle with these dismaying effects of his fae captors’ machinations.

 

“ _Anyway_ , I digress.  I’ve never been a perfect example of how to make stellar choices, but I can’t help agreeing with you: mankind has been gifted with endless opportunities to do well by not only one another and the Earth, but countless other beings and creatures, as well.  Not _once_ in recent memory have they effectively proven anything but their limitless selfishness and immaturity.

 

“That we— that _they_ ’d literally betray their own for the promise of more power or a bit of coin.  That they’re not beyond trading one of their own loyal ‘f-foot soldiers’ off and leaving them c-cold and alone…”

 

As is wont to happen when he delves into memories of his time within the Winter Court, his body reacts psychosomatically, as if he has again been left in the icy hell he actively refuses to think about, leaving his extremities feeling like they are encased in ice, in spite of the balmy weather.

 

The sensation of the always over-warm fingers interlacing with his own is effective at stopping the occasional bout of shivers that will race their way up his back.  Closing his eyes to reorient himself in the moment, he exhales and then reopens them in order to glance over at about the only bright spot in his life since leaving the BPRD’s New Jersey base for the Antarctic one.  Or more accurately, since he’d left the grounds of the Winter Court’s palace. 

 

With a wan smile, he tightens his grip on the warm, weapon-calloused hand and shuffles closer to the other’s side, feeling just comfortable and contented enough to drift off to sleep right there on the hard, grassy ground.

 

“I—.  Thank you, Noden,” he breathes.

 

“You are welcome,” is the instantaneous and heartfelt reply.

 

A quiet minute passes as they both finally begin to feel the pull of sleep in strengthening waves.  Blinking out of his stupor and fully opening eyes that had been half shut, the younger of the two makes a quiet sound of consideration, earning him his lover’s drowsy regard.

 

“Oh,” John remarks, almost absently, “and do you think we’d be able to just completely _demolish_ the organization known as the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense, at some point?  _That_ might be about the only gift I ever ask for, if you’re looking for suggestions.”

 

This startles a dark chuckle from his companion, who rolls onto his side in order to plant a brief kiss upon red, upturned lips before leaning back, slightly, to rest upon one elbow and mirror the grin being directed at him.

 

“Indeed?  In that case, I shall endeavor to build some extra time into our upcoming plans, Beloved.  Now come— Mr. Wink looks as though he may flee from our immediate vicinity at any moment if we do not turn in and allow him quiet enough to find slumber.”

 

And so they finally call it a night and retreat to their nearby bedrolls.

 

Up above, the full moon continues its slow journey across the dark sky, unobscured by clouds and half-lit by stars.

 

 

_FIN_

 

* * *

 

 

 ** _A’mael_ - **Beloved **.** _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 ** _M’ranndii_  - **Mate **.** _(_ Bethmooran Elvish _)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the ending feels rushed, that's because it kinda' is. Sorry. Hahaha.
> 
> Anyhoot, the events pretty much flow into the next work in the series, from here forward. I might add a little drabble or two, later on, taking place during this brief lil journey to confront King Balor.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed the ride! I'm off to bed, now, as I _literally_ fell asleep midway through posting this. Yikes.
> 
> Lastly, as always, my works are unbeta'd (because I'm terrible), so any and all mistakes are my own.  
> *
> 
> Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoeswrite.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
> Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


End file.
